


Before Killing Was Cool

by thanksfrank



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Artist Gerard Way, Asshole Frank Iero, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Cemetery, Child Neglect, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Past, Detectives, Domestic Violence, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Frerard, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Hiding, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Investigations, Kidnapping, M/M, MCR, Murder Mystery, Plot Twists, Police, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Road Trips, School Shootings, Secret Relationship, Serial Killers, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenage Rebellion, Therapy, Torture, Trials, Underage Drinking, petekey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 106,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksfrank/pseuds/thanksfrank
Summary: Frank Iero reckons there are a hell of a lot of people he'd do away with in a school shooting. He has a vivid imagination and what he finds to be a pretty reasonable vendetta. But when his plans are put into action, he finds himself in possession of a hostage; a boy called Gerard Way.In the aftermath of the crime, Gerard's brother Mikey struggles. With his life now in pieces, Pete Wentz steps in, harbouring bad influence and a shred of hope he quickly clings to, and secrets that could change their lives forever.#1 Frerard on Wattpad 08/2018.“I’m having an existential crisis over this story”“I loved this book and I’ll never regret reading it”“I know I’m not going to get over this for months”“THIS IS THE BEST BOOK I’VE EVER READ” etc.
Relationships: Alicia Simmons & Mikey Way, Bob Bryar & Ray Toro, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump & Pete Wentz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Frank Iero Gets His Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of my Wattpad book under the same name (and username). This has been in the works since I was 15 years old.
> 
> Please be cautious because this is pretty dark; it contains physical/emotional/parental/domestic abuse & manipulation, underage drinking, dub/non-con, lots of references to and explicit descriptions of death and mentions of suicide.
> 
> There is a sequel in the works on Wattpad! It’s called The Famous Living Dead and when I finish it, I’ll publish it here too.

_C h a p t e r | O n e_

**Present Day - Frank**

"I'm just saying, a baseball bat is the way to go. Knock 'em over the head, bang. If you were really worried about the mess, you wouldn't be using a Remington 870; their guts and all are gonna get all over the place."

He smokes Menthols. Menthols are light and cheap and tasteless so, in my opinion, give the impression of sucking on a dry straw. When he offers me one, I turn it down.

"You really sure about this? Hell, I never was. I can't believe I'm helping you literally murder these guys. But I gotta say, karma is something else." He waves his smoke around, hopping down from the wall and reaching to the grass of the playing field surrounding our high-school, plucking a dirty-looking flower.

He holds his open lighter over its petals which start to turn black. "Humankind are like flowers over a flame, you know. We might fray a little round the edges in the heat but we won't burn until," and suddenly it's catching fire, "we're pushed over the edge. You think this your edge, Frankie?"

He's full of such useless talk. "Shut up, Pete."

"But do you have to do it tomorrow? I mean, do you really have to murder my crush? I was gonna ask him out but I think it would be better if he didn't have his insides on the outside." Pete pockets his lighter and throws away the burning flower. I'm always struck by how short he is, or maybe that's because he's not on the wall anymore and only appears that way from a certain perspective. It doesn't suit him - Pete Wentz shouldn't be small but he always will be.

I tell Pete, my only true friend, everything - including my plan to 'take care of' a few unfortunate students in our school. I wasn't surprised when Pete didn't bat an eyelid when my groans of complaints on how harsh the bullies are to me turned into threats of how I could blow them up. Now it's the real deal - like something out of 'Bang Bang, You're Dead'. I'm going to wipe them out with a tactical shotgun.

The only thing I haven't told Pete is that I intend on using one of the shots on myself, because nobody really plans on shooting up their school and leaving the scene alive.

"So who exactly is on your list again?" Pete inquires. It's incredible how casual he is about the whole thing, and how he doesn't intend on telling a soul about it. I would blame that on true, loyal friendship, but I'm not even sure if we share that - it's more along the lines of mutual toleration, and the fact that we're both social rejects.

I stare at the names scrawled messily across my palm and arm and read them aloud, ending with Pete's fantasy boy - but Pete will get over it; the guy hasn't said more than two words at a time to him.

"You wanna come round to mine tonight? Your place creeps me out and I..." For some reason, Pete can't admit that, of course, he's worried for his friend. Maybe he hopes this idea will buy him time to convince me that, hey, maybe you shouldn't butcher the kids you grew up with.

"Sure but you're not going to talk me out of it," I warn him.

"I wouldn't try to." Pete lightly chews on his cigarette, fiddling with it with his fingers. He looks like he could be sick. "You know what happened minutes before the Columbine massacre? One of the shooters, Harris, he met this guy called Brooks outside, and he told him to go home. He said, 'Brooks, I like you now. Get out of here.' And he did. I don't think you're a psychopath, Frank. You don't have to be."

"You know how long I've been planning this, Pete - all the tormentors and bystanders and people who couldn't care less about me. That doesn't exclude your crush either." I scoff.

"So what happens when the cops show up? Are you going to live the rest of your life locked up or as a fugitive? Being your only friend, they're gonna take me in for questioning when you're gone. Jesus, you can be so selfish." He finishes his cigarette and stomps it out on the ground, nodding his head in the direction of the school building. "Come on. The bell's gonna go."

And Pete can't change my mind, regardless of the repetitive early-hour conversations he uses to keep us awake that night. 'This isn't 1994, Frank - school massacres aren't iconic now, they're just gross.' Such things are ignored on my behalf.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Pete demands in the dark. "Millions of kids are bullied every day but very few consider murder as a solution to it. There's got to be something else."

"It's nothing." I would never tell him the real reasons.

I stop at my apartment the next morning on the way to school, taking it in for the last time. I won't miss the half-assed excuse for decor, the smell of a cold home, the loneliness of independent living. It was only myself in this place of isolation, myself and the ever-rising stack of bills. I don't want to think of the situation that lead up to me living here alone. But I won't worry about any of that when I'm six feet under.

My equally arrogant and laid-back entrance into school goes unnoticed by most. Students chatter aimlessly amongst themselves until the bell that signals the end of lunch rings and they leave in their cliques - and lack thereof. They'll soon regret being so ignorant.

Leather gloves and trench-coat, steel-capped boots, tactical shotgun. I'm the whole nineties-junkie-head-case shebang, except this is now, I'm not on drugs, and the reasons for doing what I'm doing, in my eyes, are justified.

Don't yell 'get down on the floor'. Don't say 'put your hands where I can see them'. Don't waste time. If someone's a threat, someone will die, whether it be them or me. In normal circumstances, I could care for heads or tails. But this is now, and I'm mad.

How many lives does this thing have the power to take away? Remington model eight seventy. Seven. I could kill seven people.

There are six people who have made my life hell. Then one for me - perfect. I decide the order will be alphabetical in terms of surnames, not random, for my conscience's sake.

Marcos Black. Alan Brooks. Darren Lee. Leon Simmons. Teri Underwood. Mikey Way.

I would strangle them all with my bare hands if I wasn't sceptical they'd knee me in the balls.

Nobody has noticed the weapon tucked into my sweeping coat nor do they comment on my dark appearance, likely because I always look like this. I glance at the faded names across my hand and arm, determined to stick to the script. I studied their timetables in preparation. Marcos is in art on the top floor of the high school. I take the stairs two at a time and kick open the door, whipping the gun out and pointing it at the teacher.

Half the class are frozen in fear, the remainder cower under the tables and bleat in terror. The teacher throws her hands in the air and backs into the desk, toppling a Granny Smith apple to the floor. Subconsciously, I wonder where Pete is.

"I don't want to have to do this the hard way. Where's Marcos?" I ask slowly. My voice is rough and low and the name slides off my tongue in both repulsion and anticipation.

She starts to cry, reluctant to answer my question, but the giveaway is in her eyes when they dart to the right corner of the classroom. The prick is hiding behind his easel and breathing hard.

I stride over and toss his canvas to the wall, pondering over how colourless it is. The boy is behind on his work, a snapped pencil in his grip for sketching a drawing out and no paintbrush in sight. I decide to slam his head against the black and white drawing and, when he lets out a yell of anguish and horror, I splatter it with one of my favourite colours: blood red.

Alan - Rookie, they call him - is a few doors down the corridor in history. Undoubtably the whole student body have heard the shot and started running for their lives so I'll need to hurry. I wish I had the time and resources to catch more of them out. I use my foot again to burst into the room, spotting him immediately in his chair with wide eyes on the weapon, and blast a hole in his chest. Rookie, they called him - past tense. Unfortunately the innocent kid behind him is also hit in the stomach; she falls to her knees and gasps but I don't have time for guilt. She'll live, anyway, it's just a surface wound really.

Darren and Leon should both be in the same class at this time. I checked all of their schedules. But the department is vacant; left only are tipped chairs and deserted work. I tune in to the sound of petrified shrieking down the hall in the cafeteria.

"Barricade the doors!"

"No, we have to get out of here!"

"He's a maniac, he'll catch us!"

"But he won't be able to get in!"

Whilst listening to their bickering, I run into the doors which are indeed blocked. My boots clip against the polished floor. But the idiots forgot I can cut through the kitchen and worm through the dinner ladies' dishing-up area - a closed door wouldn't prevent a God from entering, and am I really too different? I'm taking their lives away, toying with them. And I know this place like the back of my hand.

There are at least a hundred people crowded into a tight, shaking mass of bodies on the floor under the tables, countless eyes trained on my every move. They're an unfortunate side-effect of my madness.

"I want this done as quick as possible. Leon Simmons, Darren Lee and Teri Underwood. The rest of you will be unscathed," I order smoothly, but frowning as if I'm forgetting something... someone.

Darren is pushed out toward me and he falls back over his ankle, crawling away, never breaking my stare. "Look, Frank, I-I'm sorry for what we did to you, man! We-we were just fooling around; I'll make it up to you! God, you don't have to—" He gets more frantic at the end of his pleading.

"LEON AND TERI!" I boom and tighten my hold of the shotgun against my shoulder, losing patience.

"Screw it; I'm not begging for my life, Iero." Teri emerges from the crowd and stands opposite me with his fists by his face and his chin tilted down. A pose recognised as a fighting stance. I refuse the urge to snicker. "God knows it would get on my nerves if you keep whining about what we did to you."

It's ironic since I rarely did voice my complaints out loud when they tormented me. "You think you're being a hero by standing up to me?"

I fire twice, once at Teri then at Darren. The crowd of students and staff break up and they dive across the floors, screaming bloody murder and bolting for the doors. Leon decided to stay. Shame for him - he could've escaped, but he let fear consume him. He's on the floor staring at me like a deer in the woods, looking like he might soil himself. The next shot consumes him also and his blood is a billowing velvet curtain.

Mikey Way chokes in distress from behind me. He can barely stand without his knees failing him, and behind his glasses are half-shut eyes filled with tears. He leans against a table and sobs. I lock eyes with him.

And I hesitate, almost as if I'm rethinking my decision to kill him. Why? Perhaps because he didn't do anything to target me specifically - he only hung around the wrong crowd of bullies and didn't do anything to stop them harming me. Does he deserve to die for that?

I forget everyone else - most of them have fled in any case. A sick satisfaction is already brewing from the lives I've taken. I get close to Mikey and aim for his neck, feeling the ringing in my ears blocking out the rest of the world. This is now. Don't waste time or time will waste you.

"Don't," whispers Mikey, his voice almost eerily void of emotion, "you don't have to do this."

"STOP! No, please!" A brave but laughably moronic boy I recognise is running toward us, throwing himself in front of Mikey and spreading out his arms in surrender yet protectiveness. There's something familiar in the boy's eyes, something that could only be described as hopelessness but with an urge to do something about it. "Don't. Don't, please," he begs. It almost makes me lower my weapon.

"Frank Iero, we know you're in there!" The shouts of police or a swat team echo through a megaphone from outside the open doors. Suddenly armoured men holding shields and firearms are barging in.

I try to grab Mikey, intent on making the kill before I take myself out, but the boy attempting to save him leans into my grasp, sacrificing his life - or, at least, freedom - for the kid I planned to murder. I have no time to react or to think before I'm holding the shotgun to his brain and the men in front of me freeze. I give them a wordless warning - 'come after me and the boy is dead' - and start walking away with the stranger in a headlock.

"We don't need to hurt you if you let him go and cooperate," reasons an officer near the back without too much protective gear on, "just come with us."

I send them a malicious smile that says burn in hell - come after me and I split his skull in two - before I make a dash for the back doors. Immediately, there's an open fire.

Every nerve in my body screams as a sharp pain from a bullet in my abdomen nearly makes me lose my grip on my hostage, and I hear him gasping and struggling. The last thing I see is the desperation mixed with relief on Mikey Way's expression.


	2. Shut Up And Drive

_C h a p t e r | T w o_

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey's on the floor, trying to concentrate his sight on his hands, but they're blurring in and out of focus.

"Come on, kid, you can't stay in this... place of death." A man's tugging on his arm, pulling him to his feet. Mikey allows him to escort him out.

That obnoxious goddamn ringing in his ears, God, he can't stand it. Amongst the crowds of police officers and, already, a flood of press, Mikey recognises one student who hasn't fled the scene - or, at least, showed up very fortunately late.

Pete doesn't notice the boy approaching him, his attention directed on the untouched cigarette between his fingers. Mikey stands next to him without really looking at him, scared in case he'll disappear like so many already had.

"You picked a good day to skip," Mikey mumbles. He's still in a trance, unable to process what's happened - he can't even think about screaming or crying.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," Pete says softly, sounding like he really means it. Pete would be secretly ecstatic that his crush is finally speaking to him but the circumstances crush his happiness.

Pete offers Mikey his unlit cigarette but Mikey shakes his head. His brother always told him never to smoke. "What am I supposed to do now, Pete?"

Pete quickly gets over his shock that Mikey knows his name because they've never even shared a class in school what with the age difference. Mikey's only a sophomore. "I don't know. As long as it's not nothing, Mikes." The nickname slips out and judging by the expression it receives in response, Pete regrets it immediately.

"That's my brother's name for me."

Pete could've prevented this if it weren't for his ridiculous attempts at friendship with the school psychopath. He didn't expect it to go down this way, but he still could've saved the dead, and Pete thinks - no, knows - he can't do anything right.

"What can I do to help?" Pete asks.

Mikey stares at his hands again. "Nothing. I don't expect you to even care."

"Of course I care."

"Pete, I can't go to the station. I can't deal with the interrogations. I just want to get out of here." Mikey, who is just fifteen years old at this point, feels his first authentic emotion since the incident - overwhelming guilt. "I hurt Frank. This is my fault." But then he shifts his pity to Pete. "I can't even imagine what it's like for you; your best friend—"

"Stop. It's not your fault, it's Frank's." Bursts of anger and distress make Pete's insides hurt.

"But if I hadn't—"

"Mikey," Pete cuts him off, "bad things happens to good people."

"But it's not fair! My brother doesn't deserve this. He's just gone and there's nothing I can do but relive the sounds and the black hole of the barrel sucking me in then - then it's pointed to my brother's head and the doors and the sounds, the sounds—"

"Try to think of something else. There are other sounds here, y'know, like my voice and your breathing. Close your eyes and put your fingers on your neck," Pete suggests and Mikey does, "can you feel your heartbeat? Count it, it'll calm you down."

Mikey feels his pulse travelling down his hands - one, two, three - and slowly loses himself, the world outside dimming to a faint glimmer, nothing around him but the steady beat keeping him alive and Pete's voice telling him he'll be okay.

"It works," Mikey realises and opens his eyes, resisting the tears trying to overwhelm him, "thank you."

Pete couldn't help the others, right? There was no way he could've talked Frank out of it - they were all doomed from the start. He would've had to murder his best friend to prevent it from happening. He really couldn't help them.

But he can help Mikey Way. Pete pockets his unused cigarette. "I just want to keep you safe."

>

**Present Day - Frank**

"Drive," I command of my hostage and push him into the seat of my Cortina Mark V. The shotgun is placed underneath the seat. It's the only possession I own now besides the clothes on my back.

"I don't know how," he mumbles to which I roll my eyes. I start unbuckling my belt and unlooping it from my jeans, and he eyes me with skepticism. "What-what are you doing?"

I answer by binding his wrists with the belt and instructing him to sit in the passenger seat instead of awkwardly bending himself in a foetal position.

"I can't put my seatbelt on." He points out.

For a kidnap victim of a madman with a loaded shotgun, he's got some nerve. "Are you sassing me? Shut the hell up or I'll gag you." Ignoring the mutters of how he's going to die anyway, I reach over and fasten it for him. I lock the doors to be safe then start the car.

Immediately, he pipes up again, timidly curious. "Can I ask you something?"

I roll my eyes and sigh in response, signalling that I don't care too much. I don't really care about anything.

"Were you really going to kill my brother?" His voice goes soft and scared. He probably doesn't want to know the answer.

"I don't know," I snap, wishing he'd quit asking about it.

We pull out of the school parking lot and head for the highway. I'm not going to miss this place - there's nothing to miss; it's almost barren. I can't wait to leave the bodies and mistakes behind. I guess my hostage won't miss it much either - nothing but his family. I like to think I'm saving us both from a life of boredom and failure.

"I don't feel good." The boy - at this moment, I don't care enough to learn his true identity beyond 'Mikey's brother' - prods at the skin covering his abdomen. "I think I've been shot."

"You think?" I scoff, trying to keep a grasp of my patience which is already wearing thin. I'm attempting to keep my eyes on the road and my feet by my weapon at all times. A bullet hit me too, of course, and I absentmindedly reach one hand to press on the wound. It doesn't feel too bad - it's on my side, nothing fatal. "You're not bad, right?"

"I'll live... I mean, unless you're going to kill me."

The realistic part of me knows I'm heartless enough to off the guy and end up in jail one way or another - I can't run forever; not even the infamous mafia leaders with their European villas and expensive white wines can hide in their infinity pools until they kick the bucket.

Another part of me wonders if I could at least try - disguise myself until the cops get off my back, keep the kid alive. There are no cop cars coming after us, probably too nervous I'll kill him. I almost look at him; from the corner of my eye, I see a limited amount of fear on the hostage's pale face which is perplexing; disappointing, even.

He's done nothing to me; he is nobody to me. The boy doesn't necessarily deserve to die - besides, he's the golden ticket to fending off the police. Regardless, it's a damn hassle to keep him around - another mouth to feed, another attempt at pointless company.

'Unless you're going to kill me.' I wasn't expecting such a presumption. I chew on my lip ring and say slowly, "We'll see."

I wonder what kind of person my hostage is. All the people on my list, I knew them inside and out. I knew their names, their backgrounds, from their snickers to their souls. Some of them had tormented me for years. I became obsessed with knowing everything about them so I could take it all away when I shot them dead. I know nothing of the raven-haired boy sitting next to me.

"You don't seem upset that I've taken you," I comment snidely.

He shifts, inwardly searching for a suitable reply. "I... I would rather be gone than my brother be dead. I would do it all again to save him."

To me, some selfish nobody with hardly human emotions, that sounds absurd. "Why?"

"Because I value his life more than my freedom. There's this thing called caring about people other than yourself." He sounds bitter. "Though I guess you wouldn't know about that, being that you just shot up our school."

I think he's naive for valuing someone else over himself - I've been on my own for a while and I don't look out for anyone, not even Pete. Pete's just another drive-through on my long list of short-term, personified afflictions. I wonder if my hostage had anyone to look out for him except Mikey - parents, maybe. Maybe he had friends. Can't relate. I really had no-one.

I blocked out memories of my parents so I don't remember them well aside from the occasional flashes. I don't think about my dad's five-o'clock shadow and the smell of burning when he took my fifth birthday cake out the oven. I don't think about my mother's smile that raises crinkles round her eyes or the freshly-done laundry she holds, the way she held my hands when I had been crying. I don't think about loving them, or anyone else, ever.

My bed was always a sad and lonely place, the way half of it stayed cold and made-up to look inviting but equally depressing. I often wonder what it would be like to share it, to have it half messy and the sheets crumpled, the indent of another head on the pillow.

"I have ammunition left," I retort, clearing my mind, "that I planned on using on myself. So be careful or I'll use it on you." All this threatening, it's wearing me out.

"Can I ask you something else?" He tries again, almost ignoring me.

I tap my gloved fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "What?"

"Why Mikey?"

God, I don't want to get started on Mikey freaking Way. Mikey who never smiles and looks at everyone with his hollow button eyes like he's admiring little ants with a microscope, Mikey who walks like a phantom, talks like a tiger to its prey and swims through the crowds of tormentors like he's really one of them and not just another misfit trying to blend in.

I want to rant, to create this horrific impression of this kid, then maybe my hostage will shut up at the thought of his brother being far from perfect - but I'm not even sure if I regret the fact I didn't kill Mikey. Was letting him live the right thing to do? In any sane person's mind, of course, but I don't pretend to be normal anymore.

In any case, I don't answer the question but rather counteract it with one of my own. "What's your name?"

"You're probably gonna kill me anyway," he mutters, "and that's not fair, you have to answer mine first."

"Are you serious? I'm the one with the gun and you're the one who's tied up and getting on my goddamn nerves."

"Please can you at least tell me where we're going?" He chances.

Short-tempered and possibly absolutely livid, I resist the urge to pull over and take the boy outside to off him like an old dog. "I targeted Mikey because he's a little bully who'll only spend the rest of his life smoking crack, working a nine-till-five cubicle job answering calls to go home every night to his two-story suburban home and an equally boring nuclear family when he's not with his dumb bimbo side hoe who hardly grasps how to satisfy him. So what's the point in living if you're going to end up like that?"

The boy falters before answering in a noticeably less confident tone than before - doubtful, even. "You don't know that he will. Besides, Mikey's smart - he'll get a good career, a worthwhile future. And I don't think he'd cheat on his partner. If you put in the work, anyone can be successful and happy."

"Those things don't always go hand in hand. Tell me your name."

"Tell me where we're going."

I swerve from the highway of traffic onto the outskirts of a field, parking and ignoring the traffic going past that's probably wondering what the hell we're doing. The boy sits rigid and breathing fast, confused.

"I may have spared your brother but perhaps you shouldn't overestimate my generosity," I grumble, reaching for the shotgun without the intentions of really using it. I just want to frighten him, really.

"Gee— uh, Ray," he blurts out when my fingers flit across the weapon, shrinking further into his seat and bringing his tied hands up to his face. "That's my name, alright?"

"Ray Way?" I scoff as I drop the shotgun and start the car again, dissatisfied. "You wanna try that again?"

He huffs out a sigh of resignation. "Okay. Okay, it's - it's Gerard."

"Yeah, I'm gonna call you Gee."

I drive for so long that the sun drowns beneath the horizon, eight hours right into the state of North Carolina, until I spot a motel. I have to leave the shotgun in the car, so I have to secure Gerard to one of the guest beds. But before I can, he notices I'm weaponless and uses this to his advantage, kicking me between my legs like I feared might happen from one of the guys I shot and bolting for the exit of the room.

I take a while to recover and he could've gotten away if he hadn't tripped on the way down the hallway. I should be mad but instead I laugh aloud when he falls over his own feet - his ankles aren't even tied - and groans in nothing more than frustration. I'm too bored and tired to be mad. Things like this amuse me.

"You make this too easy," I snort and practically drag him back to the room. This time he doesn't attempt to move when I fasten his hands to the bedpost with my belt.

"My side hurts," he complains. I want to smack him across the face. Why do I get stuck with the world's most difficult and annoying hostage?

"From tripping over your own feet?" I raise an eyebrow and he blushes in embarrassment.

"From the shot."

"You're a piece of work." Slowly, I lift up his shirt and I can hear his breathing hitch. I stop and look into his hazel eyes, unamused. "Why do you assume I'm going to do things to you? I'm just checking your wound."

He exhales a little and nods in understanding, adjusting his position, although awkwardly bound to the bed, so I have a better look at where he's been injured. The skin of his stomach is even paler than his uncovered hands and face, and hot to the touch.

"Where?" I ask, convinced I'm missing something because there's no sign of even a bruise.

"My right side, near my hip." He chokes and I hesitantly pull on his waistband, far down enough I can see his hipbone but nothing more. There is an intense heat emitting not just from him but from me. It's nearly summer, it's April, it is too hot. I feel... too hot, but Gerard shivers and goosebumps appear where my fingers have traced. My hand is veined and large against the surface of his torso. For a while neither of us move. I'm too intrigued by his simple reactions to my touch to speak.

Then I see it. There's a slight discolouration but no hole, no chunk of skin missing, no blood at all.

I snap out of whatever trance I was in and back away, letting his now crumpled shirt fall down and his flushed face return to normal. I come to a conclusion. "It didn't hit you."

"The bullet? But I felt it."

"You were wrong." I deadpan. I turn away and lift my own shirt, feeling his eyes follow my hand again. To my utter shock, I find the same results as I did on Gerard's side: nothing but a slightly red mark that likely won't even bruise. Yet I was hit - I couldn't possibly imagine it.

"Impossible." I tug down my shirt and whip around to face him, frustrated and exhausted at once. "There's no time to think about this. We sleep, then we drive again. I'm putting as far a distance as I can from the cops. We'll cross the border if we have to."

I search around in the en suite until I find a little first aid kit. There's in-date painkillers and I screw open the bottle. "Stick our your tongue," I instruct impatiently, coming back into the room, and he only stares at me, "do you want some Tylenol or what?"

He's too busy looking extremely disappointed and upset, probably at the thought of leaving his brother or parents or whatever, but he opens his mouth, useless against the restraints. I give him two pills, dry. He kicks his shoes off, closes his eyes and wordlessly turns away. It can't be comfortable to sleep like that, in those skin-tight jeans with his arms permanently upright attached to the bedpost. His mouth is slightly open and he buries his body into the sheets.

It's sort of attractive. I suppose if I wasn't so repulsed by the idea of sleeping with another man, I might toy around with this one.

I sulk in my bed, frustrated about the injuries and the whole situation and Mikey Way and the entire world, really. Pete was right to wonder what would happen after the shooting - what am I going to do? I didn't plan on leaving with a hostage, especially not one as smart-mouthed and irritating as Gerard. Anyway, Pete's always got more common sense than me.

Maybe I would've offed Mikey if my subconscious wasn't reminding me that, hey, that's the guy your friend's got his eyes on. And I wouldn't be stuck here with Mikey's sassy brother.

I pull the duvet over my head, consuming myself in darkness. It's a hell of a lot easier to blame others for your own mistakes.


	3. Cigarettes And Falling Down A Rabbit Hole

_C h a p t e r | T h r e e_

**In The Past**

I always used to pick the worst times to visit the school toilets. This time, it was during my Tuesday lunch break.

There they are again, the persistent reminiscent scum of the Earth, my first bullies - the term suggests that I'm just another helpless, defenceless kid; a weak pushover. They're sitting on the edges of the sinks, clouds of cigarette smoke hanging heavy over them. I make my presence all too clear by coughing and waving my hand around to clear the air, having never experienced the smell so strongly before.

At this point, Mikey Way is still in middle school; he's yet to meet me, the one who will try to kill him.

"What's wrong, never smoked?" One of them hops down from his seat, waving his half-finished cigarette in my face. "These are the real ones, none of that menthol crap. And don't just look at me like like that, Iero - come closer."

I wipe the equally dumbfounded and disgusted expression off my face in a blink and hesitantly step closer. Usually, I'd make a smart comment and get the crap kicked out of me, or try to walk away to end up in tears at the things they'd spit at me from their tongues. But for some reason, I've always been compelled to at least try smoking - see if it's as revolting and dangerous as people say it is. What do I have to lose?

"I don't—" I start when I'm handed a fresh, unlit one.

"It's easy; just inhale." One of them rolls his eyes and lights it for me. They're being surprisingly civilised today in comparison to the usual, aside from the uncalled-for muffled snickering.

I do just that, quickly finding out why they were all hiding their smirks - there's more to it than simply breathing in. I did it too quickly. I double over in a fit of coughing, dropping the poisonous stick immediately and stomping it out on the tiled floor, one hand on my chest in attempts to keep my composure. They're all laughing.

"God. You'll figure it how to do it properly if that single brain cell in there is working." I'm being tapped harshly on the head and I wince.

"You like it, Iero?" He pushes. I say nothing but I'm shrugging. Minus the coughing, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. It tastes different to how it smells, kind of stale and papery. I just have to grasp the technique. "When you get your own, you're gonna get us some too, yeah?"

"Y-yeah," I echo. I won't be able to; I'm fifteen and have no older siblings, cousins or other connections to pass them on. My parents don't smoke so I can't steal from them either.

"'Y-yeah'," one of them mocks in a falsely high-pitched imitation of my voice much to the others' amusement, "learn to speak, dimwit." With one kick to the shin that causes me to squeak in surprise more than pain, they leave me in the bathroom.

I glare at the sorry-looking cigarette on the ground, still smoking slightly, and quickly rush after my bullies with bad thoughts in mind. I put a hand on one of their shoulders and they all turn around.

He slaps my hand away. "The hell are you—"

I sock him on the nose - he stumbles back and yells, falling onto some nearby lockers and pressing a hand to the injured site. His friends help him to stand upright until he shoves them away.

"You want your cigarettes?" I reveal the half-used one from the floor, still somewhat alight, and clutch onto the collar of the boy's shirt. "Stick it up yourself." I yank out the boy's arm and press the burning end to his flesh.

They're being pulled away from each other by horrified teachers. Screams bounce across the walls of the corridor, and there's a satisfied smile on my lips.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

"My parents aren't home." Pete opens the door to his humble abode, kicking his shoes off and throwing his schoolbag onto the staircase.

Mikey examines the framed photos on the mantelpiece, in good health and good time. Suffocated behind a quarter-metre sheet of glass, there's Pete and his family with semi-torn edges, all happy and sick and, God, Mikey wishes he had even a sliver of that.

"I don't want to talk to them," he mumbles for what seems like the hundredth time but Pete never bats an eye at the constant mentions of the police.

"Nobody's gonna make you. What we went through was traumatic - we're kids, they'll leave us alone, at least for a while. Come see my bedroom."

Mikey's mind is still detached from his body and legs when they move; fourteen stairs later and Pete's room has sloped ceilings that remind Mikey of ski ramps.

"How old are you, Pete?" He asks out of quiet interest.

"I'll be eighteen in June." Pete hurries to clear the half-empty boxes of cigarettes from his nightstand, throwing them into a drawer somewhere - it's what seems to be every teenage boy's method of 'cleaning'.

Mikey can't decide if he likes Pete - more importantly, if he trusts him. The guy's dodgy, somewhat illegal and older than him - he was chummy with the psycho who shot up their school. And Pete's like a robot or a bitter old veteran without the slightest sense of empathy; he may be sorry for Mikey but he doesn't really mean it because he doesn't understand how to. It's a weird thing.

It's true that Pete's a useful distraction from the events that happened. Mikey doesn't want to feel the full impact of it right now, and all this lack of emotion is a momentarily relieving numbness and an escape from reality. Mikey imagines this is what taking sleeping pills is like before he has to wake up and face the world for what it is - a holocaust.

But his thoughts and concerns could never really leave him - if Pete really did have a close relationship with Frank, would he have had any reason to believe Frank would do something so drastic? What if Pete knew about this plan and chose not to prevent it? What if he helped Frank to murder those kids?

"When did you and Frank become friends?" Mikey wonders.

"We just came together, and then we were talking all the time - I don't know when that was. It feels like forever ago. I knew everything about him but at the same time, I knew nothing."

"Did he have psychological issues?" Mikey doesn't want to make this too personal and uncomfortable and scare Pete away - the boy's his only hope for closure in finding out why Frank did what he did. Or perhaps it's far too early to be thinking about closure.

Pete's eyes don't leave his cigarettes hanging out the open drawer. "What?"

"Go ahead," Mikey allows, "I don't mind."

"No, really, I never smoke in the house anyway; my parents would find out." He gives Mikey an intense and curious stare. "It's cramped in here, don't you think? Maybe we should walk somewhere."

"Okay."

As Pete pockets his cigarettes and heads for the door, quickly tying the laces on another pair of shoes, Mikey wonders what the appeal of it is - why do such a thing to yourself? What are Pete's reasons for desiring yellow fingerprints and lung cancer? He doesn't question how the boy got a hold of them at only seventeen.

The air outside is blooming into real summer now, never mind the bull government season times. The leaves are green now, not rose gold or amber or budding like they would be in spring time.

"I really am sorry," Pete says.

Mikey barely believes him but that's okay. Part of him doesn't want to talk about it but rather get all the pleasantries out the way and try to accept what happened. "Do you think I should be crying? I think I should be crying. Pete, you need to help me feel something - I can't be empty forever, so hit me or something."

"I'm not going to hit you," he assures while laughing but playfully punching Mikey lightly on the shoulder.

Mikey knows he won't get anything out of begging so he watches Pete's feet closely until his left leg stretches out in a footstep again, leaning to the side and deliberately tripping himself over it. He lands on the concrete ground, teeth nearly shattering; his mouth fills with blood.

"Mikey—" Pete stumbles back in surprise before lurching forward to help him. "God, what the hell are you doing?"

When he speaks, red bubbles between his lips. It's hard to talk. "You said whatever I want as long as it's not nothing."

"There are better things to do than breaking your teeth on the sidewalk." Pete sighs and pulls him onto a nearby public bench, head in hands. "You're a broody, paranoid, self-destructive lost cause; just like me." And I kinda like you, he wants to add but doesn't.

Mikey wipes at his mouth, feeling the beginnings of a sharp pain kicking in. "I think I chipped one." One of his teeth are wobbling.

"Then you need—"

Mikey stands up. "What I need is for you to react, to be as human as the rest of us. It's like you're ignoring anything that happened at school, like Frank and Gerard are coming back and all this death is just another part of life, so if you're not going to make a valid, emotional point or at least cry some crocodile tears then shut up because I'm sick of faking that I can deal with this - and I'm equally tired of you pretending that you don't feel bad as well."

"I can't help it. Maybe I'm a sociopath like him." Pete lights a cigarette and sucks on it like it's a race to get to the end of the stick, to his deathbed with the rest of the kids he might've helped to kill.

Mikey shakes his thoughts away. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going home."

>

**Present Day - Frank**

There's a breakfast bar within the motel, where all the parallelogram tables have been 'fitted' to the walls to resemble booths at a classic diner. A misty cloud, which could be from the kitchen or cigarette smokers, is heavy upon the air.

Gerard and I don't touch the stacks of blueberry pancakes in front of us. I stole a hefty knife from the kitchen in case he tries anything. Our eyes are obscured by shades to disguise our appearance. He wears my trench coat and it fits him well.

If anything, maybe I should be glad at this sudden, drastic change in my life. I'm switching up my routine; it gives me something to do. I'm certainly not bored anymore. It makes me giddy.

Besides his one laughable escape attempt, Gerard has been quiet and reserved. Any average kidnap victim would fight at every chance they got and would've gone through at least a few complete mental breakdowns by now. Gerard doesn't seem angry that I've took him, frightened by me, or generally upset at all. Though sometimes I see hints of hopelessness in his eyes.

"Did you hear about the mass shooting in that high school not far from here? That's the state's second one this month."

"That's tragic. People like that are sick."

I clench my fists after hearing the two women behind us conversing, entirely unaware of our identities. They're gossiping about politics, soft concerned murmurs and shuddering gasps. I consider grabbing Gerard's hand and running but that would call for unnecessary attention. The TV comes on overhead the serving area, my face on the screen. Peculiar that it's not Gerard's too.

"Could you turn that up?" One of the women behind them asks a passing waitress. She cranks up the volume on a remote from her pocket and the voice of a depressingly enthusiastic reporter silences the customers.

"... New Jersey's second mass shooting of the month took place in a high school yesterday morning where so far five people are confirmed murdered at the hands of seventeen-year-old Frank Iero. Names are currently undisclosed, and witnesses, including friends of the victims, have chosen not to speak publicly about the events..."

"Come on, we're leaving," I hiss under my breath so only Gerard can hear, and I discreetly press the point of the knife against his lower back. I direct him to the door then toward the car.

"Sources including the local police force claim little information can be found on the offender, including any indications of his motive to commit the crime. It is believed the offender had no close relations to any of the students and no immediate way of contacting his family. This is your seven o'clock news..." The television inside drones on.

Gerard must know he could run before I could actually get the chance to stab him. It would take a split second to latch onto the arm of the closest stranger and cry out a brief synopsis of what's happened - he's going to kill me, please, you have to help me; he's Frank Iero and he's insane.

And really, in Gerard's mind, he doesn't know what stops him from doing so. Maybe he's just paralysed in fear of my knife moving quicker than he could, contradicting his thoughts that he's braver than he lets on - that would be the logical explanation. Or maybe he's confused, so confused he's wondering if Mikey is better off alone, if Gerard is better off alone and separated from society because he never really had much back home anyway.

Sure, everything about this experience sucks but it's not a 'get out or die trying' mission anymore. And of course, escape will forever be on his mind - just, perhaps, not as much as it should be.

I'm moving along until I see a cop car parked beside my Cortina.

"Get down!" I whisper-shout and force Gerard to his knees beside my car's door so he's invisible. I peek up to see the enemies' vehicle is vacant of people, and there are a pair of handcuffs on the dashboard.

I need my belt back and handcuffs are probably a lot less time-consuming to use when restraining Gerard, so in my mind it seems understandable that I would go for them. I take Gerard with me, guiding him with a grip on his forearm, then try the door, not expecting it to open.

But it does. I almost laugh, either at how incredibly lucky I got or how unbelievably unwise it was for police officers to leave their car unlocked and unsupervised when they're grabbing their morning donuts. Or searching for me in the diner. I snatch the handcuffs with my gloved hands and shut the door after.

When we get into my car, Gerard almost uses the shotgun. Almost. There are three evident things everyone seems to associate with Gerard Way: his brother, his brother again, and the fact that he wouldn't harm a fly. As soon as his hands grip the cool metal of the weapon, the realisation that he's never handled such a thing in his life - and never thought he'd have to - hits him hard. What chance does he have?

I push him into the passenger seat, digging the knife a little into his back as a warning so it cuts through his clothes (unfortunately including my coat), then let him put his seatbelt on before I cuff him.

"The belt was more comfortable," he notes to himself with a grimace.

"Did I ask for your opinion?"

When we're on the road again, Gerard speaks after a long silence. "Frank?"

Brilliant; this again. I try not to lose my temper and do something we'll both regret. I don't often get mad but there's something about this kid that constantly infuriates me. "What, Gee?"

"I'm not going to try to run," he starts, taking a breath. He speaks with hesitance and tremor in his voice. "You know... Mikey's two years younger than us. But one day, he's gonna get his own place where he'll be safe and away from me and he's so smart that he'll be able to look after himself. One day, he's gonna forget about me."

When I don't reply or snap at him for talking too much, Gerard takes it as a signal to continue. "I'm invisible at school. Everyone, they... they just care about my brother, never me, but I don't mind. Money's tight and my parents..." He decides not to elaborate on that topic and brushes it off instead. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't have anything back home worth returning to; nobody that really wants me, nobody that needs such a liability in their lives. So why should I even try?"

"I'm not un-cuffing you," I say to make it clear, unaware of whatever he's getting at.

He looks at his feet, one of which is tapping consistently. "I know, I'm just... putting it out there. I won't jump out the car or anything. We're going eighty miles an hour anyway; I'm not suicidal."

I'll still lock the doors.

"I think I'm no worse as your hostage than the rest of the world's," Gerard mutters.

If I wasn't so convinced I'm a sociopath or something like that, I would be sympathetic.

"On that news broadcast," he continues in a mumble, "the reporter didn't mention anything about the kid gone missing because nobody cares."

"That's complete bull, Gerard." I have to cut in. "You put yourself in front of a shotgun for your brother. You think he wouldn't do the same for you? You have someone who clearly cares about you, who I guarantee is looking for you in every nook and cranny in New Jersey. Count yourself lucky because there are people out there who have absolutely nobody."

Hopefully he doesn't catch on to the fact that I'm referring to myself. For me, I'm only reminded of how miserable I am - so lonely that I had to slaughter the only ones who ever paid me any attention, so lost that I'm taking an old Ford, a stranger and my own soul into stretched roads of isolation, and so selfish that I can't imagine the way back home.


	4. He’s Got No Shirt And An Attitude Problem

_C h a p t e r | F o u r_

**Present Day - Frank**

I reminisce in not so much from my younger years, vulnerable to the kinds of harsh realities no child should wish to experience, and no adult would wish to comfort me through. The black circles I would sport under my eyes were hidden from the eyes of my parents; I worried their sometimes overbearing love and worry for their only child would make me claustrophobic. Throughout my teenage years, high-school, after the worst of the worst took place, I didn't hide them anymore. These are memories I don't exactly indulge in.

I'm sucking on a cigarette, on dry air and a cool aftertaste and whittled down chemicals. The ashes of the cigarette flake and escape when the wind blows until I'm left with a burnt-out stick which I stomp into the ground by the highway. Gerard watches me litter like I'm kicking a puppy.

We've stopped for a break at the side of the road, the middle of nowhere where I'm not worried a vehicle will pass by and recognise the number plate of the car. I'm starting to really wish I hijacked the police car because mine is running out of gas and I don't want it seen on some gas station security camera. For now, trees line the tarmac for miles in each direction and there isn't so much as a sight of a dirt track.

"Cigarettes are bad for you," Gerard argues naively like my lungs aren't already black.

"Really? I never would've guessed," I mumble, still wiggling my toe cap into the dirt to extinguish it.

"You're only seventeen, how did you get your hands on them? And the shotgun too, is it your parents'?"

"Mexico," I decide thoughtfully, ignoring his questions.

For a moment, Gerard doesn't catch on and simply glares at me. Then as realisation dawns, he splutters and protests, trying to flail his handcuffed wrists, "You can't take me to Mexico you lunatic! That's thousands of miles away, I'd never see Mikey again!"

Mexico might be more tolerant of me. Surely when we cross the border, the American cops can't touch me.

"Are you okay in the head? Thirty minutes ago, you were telling me you didn't care you've been kidnapped."

Once again, I feel his eyes burn into the back of my head when I turn away. "I'm allowed to change my mind," he seethes.

"Run, then. You've got working legs and I've got a shotgun."

"I hate you," he says, voice so void of emotion it could be a threat or just defeat.

"You'd be crazy not to," I respond, "now get in the car. I took Spanish, maybe I'll teach you if you ask nicely."

I twirl the shotgun against the dirt while I await another complaint but instead, Gerard answers by kicking rocks at my heels and sprinting away.

Before he can run twenty feet, I pick up the shotgun and fire at him with no intention of hitting him - just as a warning, something that will scare him into stopping. And it works. He yells in fright as the shot passes his ear and freezes, putting hands to his head and crouching slightly, poised to run again but his body tricking him into staying still.

It's like whenever he finds himself in a situation like this - life or death, it seems, when his opportunity to escape has been hindered but still appears slightly possible - there's only one word, one name, chanting in his head: Mikey.

Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. He can't leave him so alone in the world. How will he cope without the only person he truly cares about? What's the point of anything if he's never going to see his brother again?

"Clearly I was right not to take the cuffs off," I sigh in disappointment and go over to grab him by the scruff of the neck. It hardly even makes me mad now, I'm expecting his constant fighting and it's more just an inevitable annoyance. He makes a noise of discomfort and I throw him into the passenger seat of the parked car. "'I'm not going to try to run'? Christ, I'll never trust you after this."

"Frank, I'm sorry—" He tries to tell me, still with his hands to his head, but I toss the shotgun at my feet and grab his hands and pin them above his head on the seat, wanting to make a point and getting increasingly irritated.

"What did you think was going to happen? You're pathetic. We're in the middle of nowhere. You were right; you have nothing to go back to but Mikey, who will never find you. You think he cares about you enough to keep looking for the rest of his life? He doesn't."

"Stop it." He starts crying, attempting to turn his head away but I move one hand to his chin to make him look at me.

"Nobody will find you, Gerard. Soon they will start looking for a body." At my words, he chokes out another sob. "Then they won't be looking for anything. Do you understand? All you have is me now, so you're going to shut up, fix your attitude problem and follow my orders or so help me, I'll give them a corpse."

"You wouldn't kill me," he says, "you'd have done it already, you won't even touch me—"

Perhaps it's my suddenly possessive tendencies that make me do it, or just to scare him, or simply to get the message across that he's not in charge, but whatever the reason is, my lips are on his. I don't take my hand away from his cuffed wrists so he writhes about for a little bit in confusion. For a while I'm kissing him hard, dominating his mouth, relishing in the heat coming from his body, and then he starts to kiss me back.

My tongue is in his mouth and he moans. I'm not thinking about the fact that I've never kissed a guy - I've never even thought about it, but there's something about Gerard specifically that makes me want to consider more. One hand reaches to touch his thigh and pull him closer to me so he's sitting on my lap, then I release his wrists so I can snake another arm round his waist to prevent him getting away.

He slings his cuffed hands round my neck. This is an interesting development. He's such a curious creature. I move my mouth away from his and trail almost-harsh kisses down his jaw then neck, biting the soft skin above his collarbones to leave small bruises. My open mouth presses against his throat and my teeth graze his Adam's apple. I feel his heart beat quicken. It must hurt but he clearly doesn't mind because he's leaning further into me and sighing in pleasure. I bite so hard it draws blood in one spot - he throws back his head and his eyes squeeze shut.

My grip tightens when I move back to kiss his mouth again, pulling his lower lip between my teeth. Gerard starts to rock his body against mine and his nails scratch at the fabric of my thin t-shirt hard enough that there will be pink marks at my shoulder-blades. He breathes erratically into my hair when I move my tongue to the skin between his ear and jaw and tugs on my hair, gently so as to not push his luck, but desperate enough to give the hint that he's enjoying this even more than I am. I move my hands underneath his t-shirt and trace lines across his sides then dig my fingers into his hips when he shudders and makes a happy noise again. His shirt becomes sticky with sweat over my touch.

Drivers in passing-by cars - not that there will be any - would get the perfect view of my leaning over Gerard with his hands around my neck but I wouldn't care. His t-shirt is sleeveless and thin so it's easy to rip it apart in the heat of the moment and toss it to the ground. Goosebumps rise on his exposed torso. I hold underneath his thighs so I can pick him up and toss him into the back seat where we have more room. I hover over him and he wraps his legs around my waist, arching his back into the sloppy yet rough kisses I leave down his bare chest. He tugs on the hem on my t-shirt but I tell him angrily, "no," to which he whines but obeys.

He curses and desire for my touch get louder when I move down his stomach. I lick a strip from his chest to the hair on his lower abdomen and hook my fingers round the waistband of his jeans, rubbing my thumbs in circles at his hips. He has his wrists above his head, unsure where to put them as they're cuffed. It's oddly nice to see him behaving and not screaming at me in anger for once.

He groans breathily, "Frank," which makes me stop in my tracks. He whimpers in protest and pushes his body up into mine but I force him down with one hand, suddenly pulling away and leaving him as a sweaty mess sprawled out on the seats. "No, don't stop," he begs.

I scrape my fingers through my messed up hair and completely pull away, clambering back into the driver's seat. I grip the steering wheel and clench my jaw, trying to control my breathing. What the hell am I doing? I don't even like men. I especially don't like the one I'm holding captive; that's so messed up.

"Frank?" Gerard breathes and sits up with a flushed face, his hands in his lap. There are red marks all down his neck, chest and stomach, and his lip is bleeding. It makes it hard for me to look away. I swallow hard.

"Put your seatbelt on," I say, knowing well he has slightly more power to move in the handcuffs rather than my belt so it's entirely possible, "I'm getting you another shirt then nothing like this is going to happen again."

>

**In The Past**

"And you say you didn't see who threw it," the police officer pushes Frank with doubt in his voice, probably catching onto the fact that something is being covered up.

Frank shifts in his seat, not wanting to give up the identities of his bullies. His dad is beside him and almost entirely unaware of the rough situation his son is facing at school, and definitely oblivious to the fact that the brick thrown into their window that night was not a random occurrence.

"They were wearing masks." Frank shrugs uneasily. He wants to be a good liar, to fool everyone enough so that they leave him alone, and the constant harassment has made him pretty detached from frustrating situations like this.

"So which was it then?" The cop sighs. "They had masks or you didn't see them?"

He wants to be a good liar but that doesn't mean he is. "They were running past, I - I hardly got a glimpse of them. They were dressed in the masks and dark clothing. I didn't have time to pay much attention."

It's the first time kids from school have dared to take their business elsewhere and target Frank's home - not just that but his family too. They were sitting casually on the sofa watching TV, the sun was below the horizon, any outside light bar the streetlights blocked by clouds. The kids dressed to not be recognised were walking past his house. One of them chucked the brick which smashed straight through their bay window and hit his mom on the side of her head, almost resulting in a hospital trip.

A few possible guys Frank's familiar with could have been the culprits. Marcos is the first name that comes to mind; he's always looking to impress his stupid friends by performing equally stupid antics. He likes to take the lead sometimes and suggest the cruel pranks they target Frank with. But telling the police that isn't going to help.

"That's everything," Frank says.

The cop looks at his dad. "Is your wife at home, Mr Iero? Is she safe?"

Frank narrows his eyes, knowing what the policeman is trying to do by manipulating him. Frank knows something like this might happen again but the bullies weren't ever looking to hurt his mom - nobody he knows is that low. He isn't accepting the 'if you don't give the offenders up, you can't protect your family' malarkey. For some reason he's always been wary of the justice system.

"She's okay," assures Frank's dad, "it just a scrape. It didn't look like a concussion or anything so we took care of it here at home." He seems to take note of his son's restlessness. "Thank you for your help. I don't mean to offend but it's getting late and I think we'd like to be done."

"Of course." The officer stands up from the kitchen chair after finishing the coffee that was made for him. He turns to Frank one last time. "If you remember anything that might help us find the people who did this, Frank, anything at all, just come down to the station, okay?"

"'Kay," Frank mutters rudely.

The cop nods with a pleasant smile and leaves. Frank's mom is sitting on the couch still with an ice pack pressed against her swelling temple. She holds out an arm when she sees her son crawl over the furniture and wraps him in a sideways hug. "Don't worry about me," she whispers.

Frank isn't worrying about her. He isn't worrying about himself either. He doesn't feel scared like he should - the only emotion bubbling up in his chest like a ticking time-bomb is hatred for the scum of the earth that insist on making his life hell. One day, he vows, he'll get his revenge.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey avoids Pete for longer than he should reasonably have expected. It's some kind of irrational fear, that he'll confide in the boy and end up telling him his life story and all the feelings he has about Gerard being gone. It's only been about twenty-four hours since the shooting and school, of course, is suspended. He waits mentally in the dark for some sort of guidance as to where to go next.

His parents sit in silence now, rigid against their armchairs and staring into space with constant frowns on their faces, as if they're waiting. Waiting for what, Gerard to come home? Unlikely. Mikey, on the other hand, can't keep still, having been out of the house all day and around in the neighbourhood, pacing in circles around the blocks to ease his restlessness. He feels so helpless.

Inconveniently, he finds Pete walking a similar way. The dark-haired boy jogs to catch up with him and Mikey sighs, not in the mood for mindless chatter.

"I wanna help," Pete blurts out which confuses the younger boy.

"How?"

"It's kinda messed up because you're only fifteen and I shouldn't be putting these ideas in your head but I think you should come to a party with me tonight and get totally wasted," Pete says very quickly.

To talk about things being messed up would be an understatement. Mikey hasn't even had time to process what happened yesterday. The world is moving too fast. He swallows thickly. "Okay."

"Give me your phone number," Pete instructs and he does, receiving a text when his new friend sends it out, "meet me at that address in a few hours, I'll take you. Wear ripped jeans."

Ripped jeans. Mikey remembers seeing teenage kids being ripped open, their blood and insides sliding around the floor in school. He wonders how quickly the parents will piece together a funeral. Every little thing is setting him off. "Okay," is all he says again.

He goes home to change into the jeans. They're cosy, black and have two rips on each of the thighs, and he matches them with a pair of trainers and an oversized sweatshirt. He knows that long sleeves and thick materials aren't great choices in the warm glow of almost-summer, and if this party is anything like the ones he's seen on TV, masses of sweaty drunk bodies crammed into small stairwells and kitchen areas won't help. But in a way he can't explain, he can't deal with his skin being exposed right now.

He shows up to the address ten minutes later than Pete told him to, searching dubiously for a familiar face through the windows. He gets a good view inside, feeling isolated out in the dark. The kids inside are holding cups or bottles and chatting amongst themselves, like yesterday never happened. Like it didn't affect them and they're going to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.

Upon closer inspection, when he goes through the front door, he figures it's because he doesn't recognise any of the people in here at all. They're all older than him, probably in college. He hasn't seen a lot of them around town so maybe they came from elsewhere. Maybe the shooting really didn't affect them.

He finds Pete near the pool table, unsurprised at the fact the house has a games room - it's in a good part of the neighbourhood. Pete smiles when he spots Mikey, instantly leading him to the kitchen where there's a stash of alcohol hidden in one of the lower lockable cupboards where nobody's supposed to find it.

"What do they expect leaving it unlocked?" Pete reasons when Mikey asks if they're really allowed to just take it. They're both underage, and Mikey's never had so much as a sip of beer before but it's clear Pete is familiar with the drink he pulls out of the cupboard. It's labelled as whiskey. Pete grins, saying, "This is the good stuff."

"How do you know the person who lives here then?" Mikey asks when Pete opens the bottle and pours a small amount into two cups. Mikey doesn't even know what the host looks like or where they are, or what happens if they get caught.

"Family friends or something." He hands one cup to Mikey.

Mikey resists the urge to smell it. He's still kind of mad at Pete for not being more empathetic and understanding of what went on yesterday and the consequences it's going to have. This has changed their lives forever and the guy just wants to get irresponsibly drunk at a stupid party that someone he clearly doesn't know is hosting. "Don't any of these people realise what happened? Don't they care?"

"Of course. It's hard to miss when it's on every news channel, but they're college kids." Pete goes hunting for some kind of fizzy drink to mix his booze with, preferably coke. When he comes up short, he downs it neat with a wince. "Drink, you'll feel better. Mikes, you can't change what happened; nobody can. I know it's only been a day but you have to start the process of moving on at some point."

Mikey doesn't comment on the nickname or the insensitive approach. He does want to feel better and forget about everything for just a little while. Alcohol, he's heard, is a fast-track way to avoiding your problems, so he downs the whiskey same as Pete.

He gags, considers if he can make it to the sink in time before he vomits, but manages to keep it down. It's not that it tastes bad, just... strong. Shouldn't they start with beer? As long as he doesn't go overboard and end up with a raging hangover, it should be fine, but he doesn't understand why anyone would choose to burn their throats like that.

"First time?" Pete asks sweetly. Mikey says nothing. "Let's go outside and meet people."

They get a few odd looks from the guests; they're probably wary of the fact there are two high-school boys crashing the party, way out of their place. Or maybe they recognise Mikey as Gerard's brother. Maybe they feel sorry for him.

"I'm so sorry about your brother," is what several people outside come up to him to say. So that's what it is.

Mikey wishes he was here with his friends, but they're dead. Maybe Frank didn't see them as good people, and maybe they weren't (they weren't perfect, certainly for the abuse they inflicted on that psycho in any case), but they were human beings. They were a part of Mikey's life and many others', and now there's a gaping hole in his chest when he knows he'll never see them again. This is the (second) worst day of his life.

A random girl approaches the two of them without a drink in hand. She must be one of the few sobers ones attending. Her eyes hold an insincere level of understanding. "You're Mikey Way, right? I'm sorry about what you went through. I heard those kids were bullies though - it sounds awful but I'm sure out of everyone else that could've got hurt, they probably deserved it the most. Except for your brother, of course; from what I've heard he was real nice."

Mikey wishes she wouldn't talk about Gerard like that, like he's something in the past that will be forgotten about. It's been one day. It's not the end of all things. This is a current issue. He's more annoyed about why the girl thinks it's acceptable to be practically grateful that a bunch of kids have been murdered. "Maybe you should tell their parents that," he snaps.

Pete steps in. "We're all gonna miss Gerard. And what we saw in that school is going to haunt us, but it's over now."

Mikey glares at him. How can he just say it's over? It's never going to be over. Didn't they see what happened, when Frank took Gerard? It's still happening. "It's—"

"I didn't mean to offend you," the girl says, sounding more sorry this time. Mikey gives in with a sigh.

"We're just here to take our minds off of it. Mikey deserves a break." Pete casts his attention to the younger boy with a soft look, and weirdly it sort of makes him melt. He's already had a few shots worth of that whiskey and it's starting to make him feel lightheaded.

Hours pass by. They drink more and it's really true what they say - alcohol pushes your troubles to the back of your mind, and all you can concentrate on is the twisting and turning of the world around you as you fight to stay upright. He's lost count of how much he's had but the bottle, between the two of them, is eventually emptied. The sensible voice in the back of his head tells him it's too much for his first time drinking. He doesn't listen to it.

In the early hours of the morning, people start going home. The house becomes quieter and more relaxed, girls falling asleep in heaps on the couches and guys slinging their jackets clumsily over their shoulders before heading out the door to call it a night. It's peaceful. Mikey finally stops drinking, knowing he'll throw up or pass out or do something dumb if he keeps going. He holds his head in one hand blearily as he sits by the pool outside.

"Man, I wanna dip my toes in that," Pete says as he sits beside the boy. He can hold his head up high, seeming less drunk than his fifteen-year-old friend who can't focus too well. He has a much stronger tolerance. Besides, Mikey probably had more of the bottle than he did.

"Take'r shoes off," suggests Mikey, surprised at how garbled the words sound but Pete doesn't take notice. He slips his boots off and chucks them somewhere behind them with his socks, rolls up his jeans - the rips match Mikey's - and puts his feet in the pool so the water brushes around the bottom of his calves. It looks clean and bright blue, void of any vomit or urine that could've easily found its way in there.

Mikey clumsily follows suit, pushing his jeans to his knees, ignoring the goosebumps that appear as the night air suddenly hits his pale skin. The water is warm when he dunks his ankles under it. "'S nice," he mumbles.

Pete smiles like he has an idea. He takes his phone out of his pocket and puts it with his shoes, then jumps in. There's a big splash before he resurfaces, still basically fully clothed and laughing softly. It's starting to rain so he supposes he would've got his clothes wet anyway. "YOLO," he calls ironically from the other end of the pool once he's swam over.

Mikey places his phone to the side with his keys, glasses and wallet, and slips in. No splash, no noise, just a silenced ripple of waves and he's instantly soaked. He lets his head fall under. He can't see very well without the glasses but the water is already murky and he can vaguely make out the human-shaped blob that is Pete swimming his way back over.

He goes up for air, swatting his arms and legs around to stay afloat in his drunk state. Pete instinctively grabs his shoulder to help. Mikey holds still then, the hand on his arm feeling oddly comforting if not intrusive.

"Can you even swim?" Pete asks with one eyebrow raised and Mikey tries to nod but it ends up being a shrug. It's been a while since he took the few lessons he's ever had when he was a kid. His parents never really bothered getting him to learn that stuff.

"Stay at the shallow bit," Pete commands and pushes the boy back against a tiled wall. The silver lights fade in and out of focus below them. Mikey looks up, hoping to see the stars but all he sees are rainclouds. They spit on his face. "I still want to help you," Pete continues.

"Helped," Mikey sighs, "being drunk, 's - it, it helped."

"There's something else." Pete kisses him then. Mikey's confused and feels delusional, like it actually isn't happening. How is this supposed to help? He doesn't understand how to kiss back. He tries to move his lips, willing to give it a shot, and it feels good. It feels better when Pete cups a hand around his neck.

They pull apart and Pete just stares at him, blinking. "I've wanted to do that for so long. I've liked you for so long."

Mikey climbs out of the pool in a trance and Pete follows. Everyone bar a few confused drunks have left the party. They go back inside.

Sure, Mikey knows the guy, but barely. They practically just met. How could he have liked him? And why? Mikey's a shy boy two years younger than Pete, and those two years are a lot when you're in high-school. He's nothing special. What does Pete want with him?

He doesn't know what to say so when they get back inside the house, he leans in first this time. His lips meet Pete's again, and this time he doesn't feel the dizziness that comes with being intoxicated nor does he have any sense of the world around him. This is good. It's just the two of them, trying to escape. But Mikey knows exactly what he wants to get away from - for Pete, he's not too sure.

There's a hand on the small of his back, underneath his wet sweatshirt. He almost draws back but then Pete is so gentle when he smooths his thumb down his side. There's an equally gentle tug of his hair, a silent plea for more. Pete's hand moves to the front and down, and this is good but Mikey stops.

Pete hums a question, asking him what's wrong, and he says he doesn't know.

"Relax," Pete whispers, hands still wandering. Mikey's hands are tentative but curious. They find themselves going up the stairs in the dark, quiet, alone. The door locks behind the bedroom they choose.

His back hits the mattress after his sweatshirt comes off, leaving his torso bare, and it becomes apparent how real this is all getting. He stops again. "What are we gonna do?" He mumbles, a little more sober, his words clearer. He's unsure but it feels good.

"Relax," Pete says again and he does.


	5. You Call Shotgun, I Call It Fate

_C h a p t e r | F i v e_

**Present Day - Frank**

What's wrong with me?

I know the kid for barely a day and I'm already doing things to him I shouldn't even be thinking of. I kissed my hostage. Things could have easily gone further and gotten out of control and it's all kinds of wrong. It was like some alternate force of nature was drawing us together and my brain was fried, blindly chasing a good feeling that was never meant to be in the first place.

I try not to think about it much, mainly since if I were to let my mind wander, it would lead to the thoughts of an idiot. I figure there must be a psychological explanation as to why I got the sudden urge to make out with my hostage. Is it all in possession? I finally get some human contact, someone who doesn't want to hurt me - or can't, at least. I finally have control - the upper-hand. Or maybe it's just fun to wind Gerard up.

The car is pretty quiet after. We need gas. I pull up beside a thrift store and gas station combo in the middle of nowhere and weigh my options. Option one: I take Gerard inside with me and face a high risk of recognition (and the handcuffs and his lack of shirt wouldn't look so favourable either) or option two: I leave him in the car to avoid suspicion, locking the doors, taking away objects he could use against me or to aid his escape. I'll have to take the shots out of the shotgun, of course.

In the end, I decide on the latter because I'm not going into a public shop with a cuffed, shirtless teenager who could very easily attract attention if he desired and whose face is likely plastered all over national news. No amount of fear I could hope to install into him will prevent him from seeking help from the shopkeeper, and I don't want to have to kill them too. It would be an inconvenience to say the least.

"Listen," I speak up, and his attention shifts from the window to my lips as they move, "I'm going to leave you in the car but I swear to God that if you find a way to unlock the doors and run, I will catch you and I will hurt you for it. Understand?"

He chews on the inside of his cheek, probably debating whether to make a dumb sassy comment, then agrees with a sigh, "I understand." His voice is shaky. I narrow my eyes and he turns away from my heated glare, back to the window, hunching his shoulders as if to appear smaller.

"Are you scared of me?" I scoff. I mean, fair enough, I did shoot up his school yesterday but he didn't have a problem backchatting me before.

"No." He answers too quickly and his cheeks taint pink. I don't know what answer I was expecting.

I roll my eyes at how uncomfortable I obviously make him. "Like I said, Gee, I'll only hurt you if you give me a reason to."

Part of me doesn't care if he gets away - I'd be looking at the resurgence of the New Jersey death penalty specifically made for me, regardless. But I suppose I should try to hold onto him in case I need him as a bargaining tool.

I secure the knife in my back pocket just in case I have to use it and make sure to lock the doors on my way out. Each step and motion I make is miserable and weird - I shouldn't be here. I should've shot myself. I was seriously going to do it, not exist anymore. It's like the shoes are walking around of their own accord, the body detached from reality.

After filling up the tank with gas, I keep my head down and walk into the shop. I've spotted the security cameras from outside and take caution to avoid appearing on them. Hopefully security doesn't see us and recognise the plates. Gerard is slightly taller than me, but leaner in his frame, so I conclude he'll be the same size as me. The thrift shop surprisingly turns out to have a few nice-looking things so I grab some t-shirts for myself and Gerard as well other pieces of clothing we'll need. I didn't expect this to be a long term thing but I guess this is what we're doing. I'm heading to the counter to pay - imagine, a serial killer who doesn't steal - when I almost drop the items in sick horror as I realise something.

There's a loaded shotgun in the car with my hostage.

Forgetting about paying, I bolt for the door with the stolen items in my arms and unlock the car before launching myself in the driver's seat to grab the weapon... untouched.

"You didn't...?" I pant, trying to get air and gesturing to it at my feet with wild confusion. I close and lock the door again.

Gerard leans away from me with wide eyes that give me a 'what the hell' look, looking like he wants to snap back his answer, but his voice is small and unsure when he speaks. "You said you'd hurt me."

I exhale in... relief, confusion, frustration, I haven't the slightest inkling. I was genuinely a little scared there for a second; I don't know why. I toss a shirt in his direction, trying and failing to keep my eyes off his bare torso. "Seems that you can be obedient when you're trained, then."

The fear in his expression fades into irritability. He crosses his arms and retorts, "I'm not a dog, Frank."

"Don't badmouth me, Gee; I have a short temper."

As we have all learned, of course. He mutters something under his breath - all I catch is the name 'Sherlock' - and I choose to ignore it and focus more on getting the hell out of this place before someone realises I've shoplifted. Or that a psycho killer and his hostage are making a getaway in a car thats numberplate is clearly of high interest.

About twenty miles down the road, Gerard starts humming to himself. I guess it's been a weird twenty-four hours and he's gone completely insane. Talking to yourself is a sign of intelligence - I do it all the time - but there's no need for a musical. I don't shut him up, maybe because his voice is somewhat soothing, and after a while, his soft murmuring of an almost audibly illegible tune turns into singing.

"I never said I'd lie and wait forever; if I died, we'd be together. I can't always just forget her but she could try..." He trails off, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if trying to remember more lyrics. His nose scrunches up in concentration as he comes up blank. I give him a sideways glance, kind of hoping for more when it comes back to him.

It doesn't. "What is that?" I ask. My voice is scratchy and quiet. I clear my throat.

He sits up straight as if suddenly remembering he's not alone in the moving vehicle, looking a bit startled. It takes him a while to figure out his answer. "I made it up."

"You like music?"

"Yeah. And art. Well, music is a form of art, right?"

Yes, of course music is an art. Music is the best art. As if he needs my confirmation for it. "You have a nice voice, Gee." I don't think he hears that bit. I raise my voice, feigning interest on what could have been his future plans. "Is art what you were going to do after you graduated?"

"It was," he mumbles, probably annoyed that I took that chance from him and crushed it. Whatever. I didn't even have a chance in anything to begin with. There wasn't anything to even take away from me, so he should be grateful.

"Are you sorry that you took me?" He blurts out from the blue.

My brain switches off a little, traces of what could be described as contentment pulled out from under me. The empty road is a bare canvas in front of us, with only the occasional piece of litter as a reminder we're not the only ones left in the world. He ruined it. I don't know why it makes me so angry but whatever chance at a decent conversation we had, he wiped it as barren as the horizon.

"I'm trying my utmost not to regret anything," I tell him monotonously, carefully avoiding his question, "because dwelling over what I've done isn't going to do any good to my sanity. And I think I've done an okay job so far. If you haven't noticed by now, I don't do things like guilt and remorse - they're a waste of time. What good is it going to do? I killed those spoilt brats because they deserved to burn in hell and nothing anyone can do or feel will change that now. I'm not going to change."

"Frank?"

I shake my head as a signal for him to leave it. He ignores me and almost reaches out to touch me, wondering if it would help, before recoiling as if realising it's a bad idea. He hesitates before whispering to himself so I can't hear, "I think you will."

"Music, art - that's a good answer," I say, circling back to our previous subject, "see, if you'd have said doctor or lawyer, maybe the world would miss you in the long run. It almost makes me feel better knowing you won't contribute anything decent to society."

"You like music," he argues, "the world would be a pretty horrible place—"

"Like it isn't already?"

He glowers silently. Oh, he probably thinks it's real horrible right now. Truly unfair.

"And believe me," I continue, "it's only gonna get a hell of a lot worse."

>

**In The Past**

Mikey's a freshman in high-school, starting his first day when he's knocked into a fountain in the corridor, spraying water over his new clothes and knocking his glasses (he's later to get contacts, thank God) off of his nose. It's no accident. He whirls around, eyes wide at his attackers.

"He's too cute." One older boy scoffs, eyeing up the fresh meat. They're here to judge on who's going to be the newest member of their little 'clique'. "You think anyone's going to be intimidated by that face?"

"Give him a chance Alan, won't you? Kid's not even hit puberty but I can see it," another boy butts in, stepping forward and putting one finger under Mikey's chin, forcing his head up, "he's gotta grow up someday. There's a little bit of killer inside of his eyes. Hey kid, you made any friends yet? What's your name?"

"Mikey Way." Mikey nibbles on his lower lip, oblivious to what's going on. "I - I don't have any friends." He hangs his head in shame, backing away.

"Well, that's just fantastic - you'll do fine with us, I'd wager." Boy number one, Alan, wraps a 'friendly' arm around the scrawny freshman, a smile tugging at his lips as they begin to walk down the halls. The others tag behind. Mikey wonders in naïveté why all the other students glare at them in a mixture of hatred and fear and, unbeknownst to him, sympathy for the impressionable kid. "Way, you said? I reckon I know a Way."

"My brother's Gerard," Mikey pipes up, hoping they've heard of him. He very clearly looks up to his older brother.

"Ah, of course," Alan hums in a feigned nice tone. They aren't too familiar with Gerard - he blends in too much for them to get a dig at him. "Does Gerard have any friends?"

Mikey has to think about that one, and then the answer isn't too pleasant. "He doesn't. He - he just studies and... writes music."

"So you don't know anyone around here?" One boy pushes in excitement. He can't wait to show the helpless kid around and get him involved in all their bad deeds - if he doesn't know anyone already, it won't be a personal matter. Mikey's just eating it all up.

The catch is, these aren't stereotypical bullies who have a rough home life where mommy and daddy don't have the time of day for them or each other. They don't resort to violence because they don't have a clever thing in mind to say. These boys are cunning and persuasive, and pass as straight A students trying to find their place in the eyes of teachers - when they're not targeting their next victim, of course.

"I don't know anyone." Mikey shrugs, his nervousness meaning he's unable to stop gnawing at his bottom lip. "I've gotten lost twice already. If you guys are my friends, you can help me, right?"

"Of course we can, Mikes." Alan beams at him but only Gerard can call Mikey that so it makes him uncomfortable. However, intent on making new friends so as to not become an absolute loser during school hours, he keeps his mouth shut.

"We're going to take a little detour first," another one adds in casually, "and I suppose you haven't heard the name Frank Iero, have you?"

"No." Mikey looks back, hearing the bell has rung to signify the end of lunch break. The corridors are void of students and eerily quiet. The classroom he should be in fades further and further from sight - but being a freshman, he'd be able to get away with the 'I got lost' excuse.

Mikey promised Gerard he'd do well in high-school - always get good grades, keep up the pleasantries and appearances. And he will. Of course, Gerard will never know about what he's about to do and will continue to do for a while.

"You should stay away from him. He's not a good person. Marcos, by the way." One of the boys catches up a fraction and introduces himself. "We do like to play this game, though."

"What game?"

"Shut the guy in a locker and see how long it takes him to get out," Alan butts in in explanation, "usually it's at least an hour for a teacher to collect him. Nobody says a word about anything, of course."

"We'll catch him after class," Marcus suggests. Mikey doesn't dare speak up, not liking the idea of being shut in a locker himself for getting on their bad sides. All but one bid him goodbye and he heads to class with one of the guys he met.

"I'm Teri," he says, "you've got music, right?"

That's where I am.

"Frank," I say when the scrawny new kid sits down beside me, "Iero."

Mikey pushes his glasses further up his nose and a slight flicker of concern passes through his expression. He speaks in a hushed tone. "I've been told to stay away from you."

"You'll get that a lot." I almost smile. "Kids around here don't like me. Don't ask me what I did." Yet. Honestly, it's a miracle I've gotten to music class without getting my head put down a toilet yet. However, it is the first day of a new academic year - summer has passed, the good weather is fading, and maybe I'll be left alone from now on. I did do a pretty wicked thing with a cigarette, after all.

Did it scare them off? I wish. The brick through the window incident erased any hope of that. But if I can get one day without hassle, I'll take it without complaint.

I study the kid sitting next to me as we wait for the teacher to show up. "You're new here," I conclude.

"No," he says, "well, I mean, I'm a freshman."

I raise my eyebrows. "They let a freshman take this class? You must be really good."

"Or you must be really bad," the kid retorts and before I let the comment hurt me, he chuckles, "I'm kidding. I'm—"

"This year," the music teacher starts to announce, storming into the room with papers and folders in hand, "you'll be picking an instrument you've never played before." He dumps his material on his desk and looks around the room, seeing some familiar faces, others strangers. "I know some of you are here for an easy break and therefore probably don't have a musical bone in your body. Don't worry, that can't be helped and it won't affect your grades. It's the effort you put in that counts..."

I whisper very obviously to the freshman, "This class is not an easy break, kid. Don't know what you're trying to prove by taking a course two years too advanced for you."

"You don't know what I'm capable of," he points out, "I could be the next—"

"Discussing what instrument you like the look of, Mr Way?" The teacher is suddenly right by our desks. "Is the triangle too advanced for your age group?"

Mikey sinks into his seat, suddenly realising it really isn't going to be easy fitting in here. It's bad enough getting ridiculed for your age, but for an apparent lack of musical ability? That's not fair game. "I'd like to take up the bass."

"What makes you say that?"

"My brother—"

"No matter. Bass it is, on the condition you not interrupt my class again." The teacher stalks back to his desk and resumes his blunt introduction. Soon enough, he's picking on random students and assigning them instruments. Mikey rubs his head in embarrassment.

Someone lightly throws a pencil at him from behind. He turns around to see Teri sporting a mischievous grin. "Were you laying into Iero?" he asks. Before Mikey can say he wasn't, he goes on: "B. A. D. That's what he is. Don't feel bad about it."

What an odd phrasing of words. Mikey kind of gets it - it's an invitation to bully me. It's more clear than the small talk he's making with me (and he can't tell I am mocking him in any case). "Uh," says Mikey when he turns back to me in a whisper, "I don't bite."

I grit my teeth and look away. There goes my chance of friendly human interaction this year. Teri invites the boy to sit with his friend group at lunch, and it looks like Mikey Way has already been lured to the dark side.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

The aching in Mikey's sore throat is what wakes him. It's a lack of water, something he should have had a lot more of last night. Maybe it would've helped with the hangover. He rolls over in bed, pulling the pillow at this head over his face with a whine. Everything hurts.

He doesn't remember much until he takes the pillow away and sees who he's sleeping next to. It's Pete. He looks peaceful. Mikey becomes acutely aware of the fact he isn't wearing any clothes.

There's a tight feeling in his chest as he quietly slips out of the duvet covers and picks up his various garments from the floor. He gets dressed slowly, careful not to agitate his headache or queasy stomach with quick movements. His clothes are still soaking wet, and cold. God, he still doesn't even know whose house this is. How have they not been kicked out yet?

He debates waking Pete and demanding answers. How far did they go last night? But Mikey has a feeling he already knows. He shouldn't have come up here with him. Pete's his friend; he's probably ruined everything.

Once he's got all his stuff, he decides to just leave. He wouldn't want to overstay his welcome in a stranger's home. Pete stirs when he turns the door handle.

"Mikes," he says before the boy can leave. He sits up in bed and Mikey watches him warily. "Wait."

Mikey keeps watching him. "I'm waiting." He doesn't know what else to say.

Pete stands up. Mikey wants to shield his eyes from the guy's naked body but instead finds anger bubbling under his own skin and tears of betrayal welling in his eyes. "I was drunk." When Pete says nothing, he goes on. "I was drunk, you got me drunk. You did this on purpose. I'm grieving - and I know you are too, we all are, but my brother, Pete - you can't comprehend how messed up I am right now. And you had the audacity to pull this, to tell you've liked me 'for so long' to get me in bed. I am - I'm fifteen years old."

"Mikes," Pete says again, "I do like you, it's still the truth. And I know you're hurting. It wasn't my intention to twist the situation into something you'd be uncomfortable with. I should've had a clearer head; I shouldn't have laid this on you when you were under the influence. Mikey, I'm sorry. I want things to work for us."

"No." Mikey shakes his head, feeling sick to his stomach. "This isn't okay." He starts to jog down the stairs.

Pete calls after him to wait again but he's at the front door and leaving, ignoring him. The sun hasn't risen yet and the streets are deserted. It's good that nobody will see his walk of shame. The shouting gets louder and closer as he walks, still fighting the angry tears.

"Mikey, I'm sorry," Pete pants when he catches up to him, mercifully dressed but missing shoes in his haste to match Mikey's pace, "I'm so sorry. It was really bad of me and there's no excuse for it, okay? I took advantage of you. You're right; you're fifteen, you're not old enough to drink or to—" Mikey almost trips over his own feet as Pete struggles to come out with his apology. "Please help me make it better, I'll do anything."

The younger boy slows to a stop. "You were hardly even drunk."

"I know," Pete agrees, "like I said, no excuse. Only several years of alcohol misuse to blame on my high tolerance. But I can't blame anything or anyone but myself for what I did to you."

"What exactly..." Mikey trails off, wanting to know the specifics.

Pete swallows. "We had sex." That figures. Of course, that was Mikey's first...

"Did we use protection?" He asks steadily. The threat of tears has gone. He can handle this, own up to this. It takes two to tango. It was a mistake and mistakes can be forgotten... and forgiven.

"Yes," Pete answers immediately. Mikey says nothing for a while, simply still watching the dark-haired boy. He watches his eyes, sees the emotions pass through them so quickly and all at once. He reads the guilt easily. "I'm sorry," Pete says again, and there is no doubt that he does mean it.

Mikey sighs, giving up. "I know." He tongues the area in his mouth that tore when he tripped himself up on Pete's foot. It's healed but there's probably a scar inside his gum he can't see. Those are the most difficult scars - the ones you don't know are there. "I'm sorry too."


	6. The Humble Abode Of A Recluse

_C h a p t e r | S i x_

**In The Past**

"Here, try this."

I press the wet paper towel against my bruised head and am relieved to find that it's cold and almost instantly soothes the headache. I'm slumped in the school corridor, letting my eyes shut as I fall back against the lockers. It's been a few minutes since the final bell rang and it hasn't been a good day.

A boy I recognise from my chemistry class is crouched beside me. I don't know how he got that paper towel so fast - the nearest bathroom is a floor above us, but I'm not complaining. It is unusual though, a stranger showing Frank Iero any sort of kindness. It hasn't been this way since I stuck a cigarette in that boy's arm and suddenly there's a brick being thrown through someone's window.

"You should leave before someone sees you helping me," I mumble.

"Everyone left. And if they hadn't, I don't care." He helps me to my feet and steadies me when I sway a little to the side. That 'fall' really did a number on my thick skull. "Do you need anything else?"

"Do you even know who I am?" I groan. I was just pushed to the ground by a group of bullies and nobody else did anything about it, for good reason. Not the math teacher making a quick escape through the fire exit, not Mikey Way. I don't know what I expect but it's certainly not this - people aren't supposed to help me.

"Frank, right? You're in my chemistry class." The boy gives me a funny look. "You have a literal bump on your forehead."

"Those guys are dicks," I seethe but quickly brush it off, trying not to lose my temper in front of my stupidly brave white knight. "Sorry, I forgot your name...?"

"Ray," he says.

Meanwhile, Mikey's receiving a stern lecture in a nearby classroom.

"Why'd you do it, kid?"

It's nearing the end of the semester and what better way to spend it than in an empty classroom with a police officer, watching his 'friends' cackle at him from outside the door like the group of witches they are. He meets the cop's gaze, muttering, "I don't know."

"Your parents aren't paying enough attention to you?" At this, Mikey can only scoff and shake his head. "Alright, then what is it?"

"I thought it'd be fun." Mikey shrugs.

"You're pretty young, I suppose." The officer starts writing things down on his notepad, flipping the pages and clicking his tongue. "I'd say you're too young to be getting in trouble with the law but I see all sorts around here. All I can tell you now is to stay out of it - but what's really bugging me is the motive." He leans forward. "You know I have to tell your parents as well, Michael."

Everyone these days just wants a motive to blame it on. It doesn't matter. "My name is Mikey," the troubled boy corrects him with a sneer, "and my parents don't need to know because I didn't end up actually doing anything. You can't call it a crime - I never got that far."

"I can call it an attempt," the cop writes down more, "and it's one that puts you in my bad books, too. Next time you decide to do it, or even think about it, I won't forget this, and neither will any employers when they take a peak at your criminal record. Let this be a lesson; you don't want to get involved in this. Trust me."

"Too late," Mikey grits out under his breath, thinking the police officer won't hear.

He does. "One more bit of advice, Michael: Don't fall into the wrong crowd because they ain't gonna catch you when you do." At this, he pockets his notepad and pen, giving Mikey a last hard stare before he gets up and leaves.

Mikey holds his head in his hands as the rest of the boys come in and crowd around him, laughing lightly and ruffling his hair. "What a pig," Darren refers to the cop between sniggers, "you didn't do anything wrong."

"I don't know," Mikey twitters, anxious that his brother will somehow find out and be more to disappointed with him, "I didn't think the police would get involved. Maybe I should—"

"Mikes, you're a fourteen-year-old who tried to steal alcohol from a corner shop." An arm is slung around his shoulder. "It's a start."

"Start to what?" He worries. He receives no reply.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

The second night I spend on the run is not in a filthy motel with my muscles tensed up because of the probable manhunt after yours truly - it's at the home of the only person in the world I can trust, even if I'm a wanted 'psychopath'.

I thought he was dead, Ray Toro, after he vanished months ago into the country somewhere, after being framed for the murder of some guy called Bob Bryar. I know Ray well enough to know he wouldn't do something like that. He called me the day after he went on the run, promising everything would be alright, that he wouldn't leave me to deal with the bullies on my own forever, that he'd return. He never did, but he gave me an address in case I ever decided to skip town.

I really thought he was dead - the cops announced it officially, body found, the whole shebang. Stepping foot inside the seemingly vacant little shack of a house with Gerard, no longer cuffed, in my grip, I still believed it.

Until now, because Ray Toro is standing in front of me.

"You're alive." I choke out and he nods with a smile and runs a hand through his brunette Afro.

"My humble abode, where I've been hiding out since I escaped," he announces and gestures to the sofa in the living room, the kitchen behind a small red door, the hallway, leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms, no staircase, "and nobody's found me yet. They don't even chase me for paying for this place, we're so far in the middle of nowhere. It's totally abandoned. I was wondering when you'd show - I heard everything on the news."

"What have they been saying?" I ask tentatively; the questions come flooding to my head.

"Well, I haven't seen much, just that you committed mass murder and... you know." He shrugs. "But I promised I'd stick by you no matter what so you're always welcome here. You and your... friend." He's reluctant to call Gerard a hostage. Every word he says, I become more shocked.

A twang of anger pinches a vein in my neck. "Stick by me? You let me think you were dead. I showed up here because I thought it'd be a safe house with no-one in it, but you - you've been here this whole time. Couldn't you get a burner phone and call? I shot up my school because I thought I was alone!"

Gerard shifts beside me, and I swear I feel him pressing into my side. "Frank," he mumbles like it's supposed to do something to reassure me, ground me.

It does a little to calm me down and stop me from raising a fist to knock Ray in the teeth. I exhale and say, "Okay, that was uncalled for, I understand why you left and... God, I just never thought I'd see you again. I needed you, man; besides Pete, you're the only person still here who gives a damn about me, and you weren't there."

At this, I move forward to sit on the couch and leave my hostage standing awkwardly by the front door. I have the shotgun in my hand, and if need be, the knife in my pocket. I have a good aim even with the blade. I could catch him between the eyes if I wanted. Ray eyes me somewhat tiredly.

"I know," he sighs, "you're right, I wasn't there. I was - I was scared to come back, you know? I thought people would still be looking for me. They would probably charge me for Bob's death if I ever showed face." He raises his head and unsure brown eyes meet mine. "You know I didn't do it, right?"

I nod curtly.

"Are they still looking?" He pushes.

"They think you're dead, Ray," I confess.

He throws a hand to his mouth and falls on the sofa next to me. "Seriously? Oh, Christ. That's why they haven't found me - they don't think there's anything to find." I can see in his eyes he doesn't know whether to be upset or relieved. The conflict is hidden when he heads to the kitchen. "I'm sorry, I haven't had guests in - well, ever. Do you want something to eat or drink? You too, uh...?"

"Gerard," comes a timid voice from behind me. He fiddles with his fingers and I notice his gaze is directed upon a sketchbook on the coffee table. "I wasn't in your year at school so you wouldn't know me."

"Mikey Way's brother?" Ray guesses. At Gerard's nod, he looks torn. Maybe he wants to apologise for this happening, or defend me for what I did. Ray didn't know about any of this - how could he? But he can put the pieces of the puzzle together and figure out I would have went after Mikey.

"He's not dead," Gerard croaks, "that's why I'm here."

"I assume it's a long story. I'll make coffee and toast. Sorry, a bit limited for resources." Ray chuckles nervously and flips the switch to turn on the kettle, searching through the cupboards for bread. I can see him from the open door and his hands are shaking, likely due to what I've just bestowed upon him - the fact that the whole world thinks he's gone and his former best friend showed up at his door with a hostage.

The kitchen door slightly shuts so he can't see us. I turn to Gerard after motioning to the sketchbook and say, "You said you liked art. Do you draw?"

He raises both eyebrows. "You remember."

"You practically just told me." I'm trying to distract him. I don't know how he's going to react to Ray - he's heard of him, I'm sure, through school. He hasn't made a move to bargain for his life. Ray seems too calm and the fact that he's alive instantly makes me trust him less.

"Right, uh..." He runs a hand through his black hair and bites his lip which sends a soft warmth through my body. "I'm just used to people not caring enough to listen."

Empathy? Sympathy? I don't feel it. At least, I shouldn't.

"Yeah, I draw." If I hadn't have been paying such close attention to his nice-looking face, I would've missed the way his lips twitch into a smile. The corners of his mouth are quirky when he talks, but I like the look of it.

Shaking fantasies of bending him over the coffee table and showing him how he really affects me out of my mind, I say, "Draw something in that sketchbook."

He appears taken aback. "Frank, I can't; it's not mine."

"Stop being so frigid for a moment and just do it," I snap... affectionately. Is that possible? In any case, I made it happen.

He hesitates before picking up the book like it's an alien. There's a couple of regular pencils beside it and he grabs one too, taking a seat next to me on the sofa and flipping over to an unscathed page.

We wait in silence for at least sixty seconds before he stammers, "I - I don't know what to draw."

"Me." I say without thinking. He gapes for barely a moment then quickly nods as if it were an order he can't refuse. Well...

The only noise past Ray's clattering in the kitchen is the sound of our synchronised breathing and the gliding of the pencil across the page. For what seems like hours, he draws in silence, looking more at me than the art he's producing, until Ray comes back in, startling him into dropping his work.

"I hope you like your coffee black; I've ran out of milk again." Ray groans to himself and hands a mug to Gerard and I before placing two plates of burnt buttered toast on the table in front of us. "Is that my sketchbook?" He wonders.

"Yeah, sorry, I was just - uh—" Gerard trips over his words and a deep pink creeps up his neck. He puts the pencil back and leaves his drawing alone. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interfere with your art."

"Art?" Ray laughs. "Have you seen it? It's anything but. From what I can see here, yours belongs in a gallery in Paris. It looks just like him." Ray gives me a sideways glance.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean over to peer at Gerard's drawing. Of course, I notice how amazingly accurate and proportional it is, how much it does look like me, the tones, the shapes, the texture, everything.

But most of all, I see the regret in my pencilled eyes looking back at me.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

"Drinks tonight?" Pete presses a business card into Mikey's surprised hands.

Mikey turns the card over, seeing an address scrawled on the flip side in handwriting that could pass for a child's. On the first side, a name: Patrick Stump.

"I don't know any Patricks," he says unsurely. Besides, he's still mad at Pete. He isn't sure they should be hanging out after what happened.

So Pete moves to pluck the card out of his hands again but he moves back warily. "Is he your friend?"

"Patrick? Sure." Pete shrugs and balances from foot to foot. They've taken the day off school - again - but that's to be expected. A lot of students haven't gone back at all. The park where Pete asked him to meet for the first time in a week is quiet, an unassuming wind lying itself on the tree leaves overhead.

Mikey takes a seat on one of the swings. "I'll come but I'm not drinking."

"Understandable."

So they find themselves on the far side of town that night, the clouds conjuring up a storm above them as they race to make it to Patrick's house before the rain falls. The interior is warm and more inviting than the last party they went to, a cosy kitchenette hugging round a rickety dining table, two family-sized sofas and a modestly-sized TV. Mikey imagines this Patrick guy and his parents, maybe siblings, watching crappy reality television with their Sunday roasts as a family tradition, and his heart shrinks a few sizes.

Patrick is the one in the small crowd wearing a fedora and his smile is all-singing, all-dancing. "Hey, you must be Pete's friend."

"Mikey Way," he replies and Patrick's smile falters for the briefest moments into a look of concern. It's gone as quick as it happened and Mikey pretends it was never there. He doesn't need a pity party.

Pete, however, takes it as a sign of conversation. "These guys all dropped out after it happened," he says. He lights a cigarette inside much to Mikey's surprise.

"Put that damn thing out or take it outside," Patrick scolds and Pete sighs before heading for the back door with a playful roll of his eyes. Mikey stands in the same position awkwardly until Patrick invites him to sit down with everyone.

A blond boy sipping on a beer in control of the music is the first one to break the silence. "Yeah, we dropped out. None of us were ever really the academic type. All turned eighteen already anyway, except Patrick."

"My birthday's in a few days," Patrick tells him sheepishly. He perks up as if remembering something. "Do you want a drink?"

"What do you have?" asks Mikey, suddenly desperate to fit in. They all seem nice, and he especially likes Patrick, who he would never place as being friends with someone like Pete.

Patrick reaches for the crate of beer behind them. "Sorry, there was no room in the fridge for these so they're kind of warm..." He offers one to Mikey who takes it with a quiet thanks. He wants to ask the group how they have such easy access to alcohol but thinks this isn't the best place to be fetching tips. Do they know how much younger than them he is? Maybe not, and maybe it should stay that way.

Pete comes back smelling like smoke.

The blond boy takes a sharp turn in topics. "So you must have some pretty intense PTSD, right?"

Mikey flinches and reaches for the bottle opener to crack open his drink. "I try not to think about it." Their bodies dripping blood across the school cafeteria, the holes in them, their open eyes staring into a black abyss. He shudders as the colour red invades his mind.

Patrick says, "I always thought it's so sad that things like this happen in our country but I never thought it would happen in our school. Everyone seemed pretty happy, didn't they?" Mikey shifts uncomfortably and sips his beer, not wishing to argue.

"Now everyone has psychological damage," Pete says, "if they didn't already."

What a bunch of messed up kids. "It's my fault," Mikey admits softly. They all turn to him and it comes blurting out. "I was friends with the guys he killed. I didn't - I didn't do anything directly to Frank but I sat back and watched it happen. There's no excuse to make it right but I was lost, I was scared; I didn't want to get on their bad sides. I had no idea it would go this far."

There's silence for a beat as Pete contemplates his own guilt. It's equally on him that this series of events unfolded. "I just regret befriending the psychopath," he mutters.

Mikey turns to him, trying to read his expression. There's a deep sense of unease and he grows suspicious. He doesn't know a lot about how close Pete and Frank were and maybe this runs darker than he could ever imagine. He chugs the rest of his beer and decides that'll do him for tonight.

"You can't blame yourselves," says Patrick with a frown, "you're not the ones who committed mass murder. There had to have been something seriously messed up about Frank, something beyond casual bullying and a lack of good friends." Pete scowls.

The curly-haired guy to Patrick's left slumps back against the sofa and sighs, "We got out, guys. Now we can go to college, get nine-to-five jobs or join a band and grow old. We should be grateful we get any of those opportunities after what happened. We can do anything."

Mikey can think of only one person, one who couldn't relate to anything they're saying, will never know Mikey was here and will never get the chance to drink beers with Patrick Stump and talk about going to college and living the life he deserved.

He just hopes his brother isn't in pain.

Pete suggests they go out to the yard together, alone.

"I can read palms," he boasts to strike up conversation, "some old Aunt taught me. I read my own last night, and it's changed a lot from when I did the same thing a few years ago."

"What's the verdict, then?" Mikey asks, leaning against the brick wall.

"When I first did it," Pete explains, "I had a really prominent heart line but now I can't find it at all. It depicts your love life, you know? I guess any chances of that recently got wiped out." He smiles a little, jokingly.

"Will you read mine?" Mikey's suddenly interested.

"C'mere." Pete indicates for Mikey to raise his right hand. He lies it upside-down on Pete's, noticing how warm the skin is. "This is your life line," he tells him, running a finger down one side of Mikey's open palm, "you've got a long one - it means you're healthy and you've got a long time left to live. But you've got a few splits up here." He traces back to the top of the line. "It means you'll have to make a lot of difficult decisions—"

"This is bull," laughs Mikey, drawing his hand back, "my left and right palm are totally different from each other so how could you possibly tell what's true? You don't really believe in this, do you?"

"No." The corners of Pete's lips turn up again. "Next I'll be reading your tea leaves." The smile disappears. "You're getting better already."

"Better? It's as fresh as what I had for breakfast this morning." Mikey refers to the incident. He's only better at hiding how bad he's taken it.

"I understand it'll feel like a long time," Pete tries to explain, "every minute, every day - all this time added up, it means something. It's a step closer to..." He trails off, unsure of what abstract noun he should pluck out of his brain. "It's a step closer to okay-ness."

"Okay-ness," mumbles Mikey disappointedly.

"Maybe you could try—"

"Not yet, Pete," Mikey reminds him distastefully, "I don't have to 'try' anything to help myself. Not yet."

"You're right." Pete agrees with a sigh. "Sorry. I'm no good at this."

Mikey often forgets that he's not the only one who lost someone important. His expression softens as he puts a hand on Pete's shoulder, biting his lip regretfully. "It's alright. You don't have to pretend I'm the only one that's hurting either."

Pete offers a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, but he knows he's got Mikey exactly where he wants him. "It's alright."


	7. Why Is Gerard Way Not Dead Again?

_C h a p t e r | S e v e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

"Where are you headed?" asks Ray, sipping on the last of his coffee.

There's a map spread out in front of us, pinpointing our current location in Georgia. I stare at the roads heading west.

"I was thinking Mexico but—" I cut myself short. But what? What's stopping me? Gerard? Of course not; that would be absurd. I can't possibly be feeling sorry for him because I'm taking him away from his brother. It's not like I have any intention of returning the damaged goods. "If it's alright, we'll crash here for a few nights while I figure it out."

"Frank," Ray starts hesitantly, looking around for Gerard who claims he's taking a shower, and relaxing and lowering his voice when he sees he's not around, "what exactly are you doing, man?"

"What do you mean?" I sigh, playing confused because I don't want to talk about it.

"Nothing's stopping you from putting a hole through your hostage's head and dumping the body," he points out and I'm aware of the irony when I find myself a bit taken aback at the notion and his inhumane words, "you've killed five people, what's another one? Hell, you know I wouldn't grass on you. I couldn't, they'd ask questions. I get nervous enough going to the grocery store with a scarf over my mouth."

"I can't do it." I put my face in my hands and huff in frustration.

"So you're just going to keep him forever?"

"No, Ray, you just don't get it. Things have changed since the shooting, I don't want to - I just can't." I flail my arms around, trying to make a point that it's complicated.

"Have you gotten attached to him?" He pushes.

I roll my eyes. "Of course not. I kidnapped him. I practically just met him."

"Right. So you're going to let him go?" Ray doesn't mention that this is starting to sound like Lima Syndrome, when the captor gets emotionally invested in his captive. But Ray's starting to get on my nerves. "Well, you could, you know. If anything, it would win you brownie points. The cops will be after you no matter whether you have him or not, so you could ditch him at the nearest—"

"Stop talking about him like that!" I snap, interrupting him in sudden anger and defending Gerard. "Like he's an object that can be disposed of my leisure, like he isn't a person with humanity and feelings!"

Ray resists the urge to laugh at the irony. "You want to talk about how he probably feels right now?"

"Okay, say we go to Mexico," I huff, "because I haven't made up my mind. But then I decide to strand him in the desert in a foreign country, and his only option is to hitchhike back to civilisation but a murderer picks him up at the side of the road—"

"You can't be serious."

"I don't like the thought either. He has a life ahead of him," I try to explain.

"So did the people you murdered, Frank." Ray puts down his mug and shakes his head, holding his hands up to calm me down. "I'm not judging you, okay? I'm your friend and I'm trying to help you. I'm also saying you need to think this through before you create a bigger mess."

God, I really do.

"It's getting late," he notes, "I'll take the sofa - Gerard and you can have the bedrooms."

I sulk back into the closest one down the hall.

I'm sleeping fairly well, minding Gerard has a lock on his door and window, knowing we're relatively safe with Ray far away from most civilisation, until soft sobs drag me to consciousness. I rub my eyes which obviously isn't a bright idea considering traces of eyeliner smudge across my knuckles and cheekbones. I desperately need to shower - in the morning.

I shuffle out to the hallway and conclude the crying is coming from the other bedroom where Gerard is residing. Usually I would get annoyed at this and immediately turn around and go back to sleep, maybe place a pillow over my head to drown out the noise, but for some reason I find my feet continuing to carry me forward. I place one ear to the door and listen to him whimper and sniffle pathetically.

Eventually I muster up the courage to twist the lock and open his door. Screw it - invasion of privacy is far from the worst crime I've committed. Through the eerie darkness, I see a figure beneath the covers on the bed, an illuminated shape huddled and muffled and shaking. I close the door behind me and sit down on the end of the bed.

Immediately he stops crying and freezes, finally noticing he's not alone. He slowly pulls the duvet off his frame and stares at me with sizeable, red eyes framed with wet lashes. His lower lip briefly juts out and the moonlight from the window casts a glow on his cheekbone and jawline, accentuating the beauty that sculpts his features.

"Frank," he breathes out with a frown, "you heard that?"

"Hey, Gee," I murmur, not breaking eye contact.

Then he breaks down again, tucking his knees to his chest with tremors wracking his body, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I can't - I didn't mean to wake you," he sobs, "I'm sorry, just d-don't hurt m-me."

I do something that shocks us both: I wrap my arms around him so his face grazes my chest. I can't really remember what it's like to hug someone. This is so, so messed up given our situation. I just want him to stop crying. I close my eyes and relish in his warmth and how he seems to fit to my body, and I can't deny it - I pity him. "Gerard, I won't hurt you." He's clearly traumatised from when I practically attacked him because I couldn't control my damn hormones, and guilt shoots up my spine and gives me shivers.

"Why are you doing this?" He gets out between sobs.

"Gee, I may have kidnapped you, but I'm not heartless," I admit, probably lying to make him feel better, "and I'm not going to ask what's wrong because we both know that's a pointless question."

He laughs lightly and nervously, and hugs me back, snuggling closer until we're both lying down and my arm is wrapped around his waist. It's definitely weird. I couldn't care less that, at this moment, I'm showing such a level of affection, and neither of us question it because I'd only push him away and get angry if he commented on it. I just let myself be at peace with the unexpected kindness.

"Most of all, I miss Mikey," he whispers when he stops crying, his voice an echo in the little black room, "he must be so worried for me. What if he's in trouble at school or with money? I'm supposed to look after him. I failed him."

"I would've killed him if it wasn't for you," I remind him, and I'm not in tune enough with his emotions to know if that statement helps or not. "You didn't fail him, you saved his life."

"I wish I could just ask him how he feels," he admits.

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask sadly.

"Just... talk to me?" His suggestion comes in a small, unsure voice. It's no wonder he's constantly on edge with me and reassuring conversation isn't my strong point. I decide I'll give it a go.

I rest my chin on his shoulder and close my eyes, imagining a better place, a better world. "I don't regret taking you." He stiffens, stunned, but I continue as if I don't notice.

"I don't regret taking those five lives yet because I haven't thought about it. I refuse to think about it because if I do, the whole world will come crashing down and I'll fall apart. The plan was thought out well in advance but when it came to pulling the trigger on those kids, I can't explain what it was like. It changed everything. But I've thought about you, Gee, admittedly, and that's part of what changed everything and it made me realise how alone I've been and why I did what I did. Pete wasn't like Ray. Ray was my only true friend and I hadn't seen him in months; the only human contact I had was when I was getting my face shoved in a goddamn toilet; my parents are long dead—"

He doesn't manage to conceal his gasp.

"—and it's taken me all of this - literally kidnapping someone - to see how much I needed more communication. So maybe I took you for a reason subconsciously, because I'm selfish and I need someone to talk to and hold even if it's a crime. I've done worse."

"Frank..."

"Time is wasting me. I'll be dead soon, I know it. I didn't plan on making it out of school alive, but I suppose I'm thankful that I did, and I'm definitely glad I took you with me. I just need you to trust me that I really, really don't want to have to hurt you, Gee, so please don't make me; don't try to leave, okay?"

He bites his lip. I fiddle with the ring on mine with my tongue, waiting for some sort of agreement. He buries the side of his face deeper into the pillow away from me and replies without looking, "I'll try."

Of course, I won't know if he's lying. If I were in his position I'd do anything to appease the person who could off me at any given moment. But something tells me that he knows me a little by now - he knows my emotions have gone haywire and it doesn't take much to make me snap or react unpredictably. I'm unprepared for my own outbursts at the best of times. And so he knows what to say to me to make it alright.

That's the best answer I'll get out of him. Reluctantly I untangle myself from his body and glide from the bed across to the door, shivering at the loss of heat and increase in exposure. I lock his door and tiptoe back to my room.

I don't sleep much. Instead, I dream.

I dream of where my parents are buried. Their headstones are already coated in a thin layer of moss than I reach forward to touch, feeling the moist softness of life growing on death. Everything carries on no matter who gets hurt. Life is a cycle of unjust pain and inequality. My parents didn't deserve to be six feet under already.

It does me little good to dwell on the dead so I step back and their graves fade away into a flurry of colours. When I blink, I'm in constricting darkness. When I try to move, my limbs attach themselves to my sides and I feel rigid and trapped, the weight of something pushing into every point of my body from all angles - left, right, above and below. I open my mouth to breathe but there's no air, and a strange taste of dirt in my mouth.

"Help," I wheeze. I manage to stretch out my fingers and flinch when they find something unexpected: someone else's hand. I cling onto their fingers and they grasp mine tightly back. I have to stop myself from panicking and remind myself that it's only a dream, but this one's stubbornly vivid. The stranger's fingers clamp down on mine one last time before they're gone.

"Don't," I gasp, "don't go." Every muscle in my body is stuck, otherwise I'd go after the comforting hand. Maybe it's a metaphor for all the good people in my life leaving me, my subconscious reiterating my loneliness. I feel not only physical but also emotional pain at the thought of staying in this darkness where nobody will find me. Nobody will find me. I fall deeper into sleep, breathing in dirt.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Gerard has a goddamn shrine.

"I'm really sorry." A girl flutters her eyelashes at the display of candles, pictures and flowers against Gerard's locker in a school corridor and sympathetically places a hand on Mikey's shoulder. "Try not to feel so bad."

But he does. It's his fault - if Frank had just shot him, his brother would be here and he wouldn't be glaring at a materialistic arrangement of pretty little things that don't do anything to help anyone, wishing he could tear it down without such an action being seen as disrespectful. He doesn't like how they refer to Gerard in the past tense either. 'Try not to feel so bad' - it's as if the girl is reading Mikey's mind.

"Don't worry." Mikey shrugs her hand away, shooting her a wide and feigned smile. "I'm completely and miraculously over it."

"That's great! Keep up the optimism." The girl once again puts a hand on his shoulder in what must be an attempt to sympathise with him, oblivious to the self-contempt on Mikey's features. When she's gone, he's quick to bend down beside the pictures of Gerard to flip them face-down. By the glowing of the candles, he pinches out their flames.

"Sorry, Gee," he whispers.

"Michael Way?"

Mikey gets to his feet in a hurry. He finally shows back up to class and he's already being hounded by a woman who's definitely too old and dressed too formally to be a student here. His gaze drops to the lanyard around her neck then back up to her stern expression.

He takes a deep breath, fearing the worst. "Yes?"

"I'm Detective Alicia Simmons." Crap. "You haven't been showing up to school lately."

"I wonder why that could be," he retorts rudely and starts to walk away from her. Her heels echo against the polished floor as she strides to easily catch him up.

"This is a matter of the law," she says, "you would do well not to avoid me."

Mikey spins around with a roll of his eyes. Over her shoulder he sees Pete at his own locker, taking out some textbooks but giving him the side-eye. Probably doesn't like that Mikey's talking to an officer of the law. "Someone hired a PI already?" he mutters.

"I'm not here to investigate anything - yet." She's doing a thorough job of investigating his exterior though, letting her curious eyes sweep over him: his un-ironed shirt, muddy Converse, hair that hasn't been washed or even brushed in a week. She probably sees the exhaustion in his eyes, the result of the nightmares that keep him up. "Just trying to help out a kid who clearly needs it."

"Why would I need help?" He hardly resists the urge to start walking away again.

"I want to offer my condolences," she starts, "for your brother."

Mikey swallows the lump in his throat.

"I was hoping that you could shine some light on something for me. Frank Iero really seemed to have a hate on for you. I'm guessing your brother wasn't meant to take your place that day. I wonder if your involvement was a happy accident."

"Are you for real? There was nothing happy about that day," Mikey snarks, finding Pete's questioning eyes again.

"Of course not. But it would make me infinitely more sad to learn it hadn't been a coincidence. Did Frank have any close friends who might have known something was up?"

He tries not to look at Pete now. "No friends that I know of."

"You know of his enemies, then?" She straightens herself out, seeming less than friendly. "Kids don't behave this way without a motive. At first glance of the CCTV footage, without audio one might say the targets could have been random but why would he hesitate when he got to you?"

"I don't know jack about Frank Iero. The guy didn't like me." Mikey shrugs as Pete finally finishes collecting his class materials and stalks off. "I don't know what else I can say. The guy was a trigger-happy sociopath. He isn't here so I hardly see how it concerns me."

"We can't exactly prosecute him now," says Alicia, "but the grieving families of those kids are looking for answers. There have been a lot of promises made that I need to keep on top of, and I've been told to start with you. Don't play dumb, Michael."

"I can't help you," he deadpans and dares to turn around and start walking again, hoping she doesn't take offence enough to chase him and get offended. He doesn't hear the heels as he does.

>

**In The Past**

I think my mind has snapped. I stare at my laptop screen, open tabs filled to the brim with apartment listings. The area isn't an expensive one to stay in so it shouldn't be a problem to make rent in time and keep up with the bills. The apartments are basic, unfurnished, lonely. I have nobody now.

"How about that one?" Pete suggests, pointing to '$550 PER MONTH NOT INC. BILLS ONE-BEDROOM APT - NO YARD/NO FLAT SHARE'. "You'd have your own bachelor pad."

"I don't want to be on my own," I whisper.

Pete slowly takes the laptop off of me and places it on his bed. He tries to talk to me the way one approaches a wounded animal, scared it could bite back at any moment or run for its life. "Man, you're my friend but you can't crash here for much longer. My parents can't deal with it. Look, you've got the inheritance money; my dad's a lawyer and I told you he'll pull some strings so you can fly under child protective services' radar. Your stuff's sitting in a storage container ready to be moved when you are."

"I'm never gonna be ready to lose them." I shake my head in denial. "I still can't believe it happened, just like that. I have to think about planning their funeral but - but I don't even know what they would've wanted. It's not something we ever discussed."

"I don't know what to say, Frank," Pete sighs, "you have to take it one thing, one day at a time. I'll help you deal with the funeral but right now, we need to find you a place to live before you're on the streets." He almost comments that it's a dangerous world out there but then decides it would be inappropriate. "Did Ray get back to you?"

"He said I could stay for as long as I wanted but—" My breath hitches in my throat. "It makes no difference. Here, there; I'm not wanted by everyone. Life isn't just some massive sleepover. You're right, I have to face up."

"We could have some dope parties in this one." Pete changes the subject, pointing to the next apartment on the listings page with an open kitchen diner. It momentarily takes my mind off of things and I'm grateful as we click on it for more details and get swept up in the moment. Things are about to get a hell of a lot worse.


	8. He’s Got Murder Written All Over Him

_C h a p t e r | E i g h t_

**In The Past**

"Have you spoken to your chemistry teacher about your grades yet?" Mrs Nestor pushes as my attention drifts to the lipstick stain on her white shirt. It's a shame because it's a nice shirt. I can't concentrate.

She notices this too and leans forward to speak to me more directly. "Frank, people will stop giving you a free pass after a while. You have to take the opportunities as they come; your teachers can fix your grades if you open up to them. You can start thinking about college. Don't you have any hope for your future?"

"I don't want them to give me an A just because my parents were killed," I reply bluntly.

Mrs Nestor tries a different approach and hands over a blank notebook and pen. She gestures for me to pick them up. "I want you to write a list of adjectives for how you feel. They can be contradictory or nonsense if you wish. It can be about your parents' death, school, your friends, your classmates." She doesn't want to say bullies; she doesn't know how bad it's gotten. "Describe your attitude toward your new apartment. You move into it soon, don't you? You must be glad you didn't find yourself in the system."

I really don't care where I am. Anywhere would be better than sat here in some halfhearted therapist's office the school provided me with. I don't know where they got the money from to give me this 'kind service' but Mrs Nestor doesn't look very expensive, apart from her shirt.

It was the last straw to send me here, after I tried to cover up my latest black and blue eye. That was courtesy of Leon but the principal couldn't get any names out of me so he figured someone else could try talking some sense into me. I'm not holding out any hope. He should just give up on me like I've given up on myself.

I start writing anyway, to entertain her and pass the time. We have ten minutes left of this hell that's designed to fix my brain. I scrawl down the first words that come to my head but when I run out of fake ideas, all that comes to mind is 'nothing'. Is this how therapy is supposed to work? I really do feel nothing but a little anger at how unfair this is.

Mrs Nestor peers are my work when I'm done and nods encouragingly when she sees what I've put. "Good. That's good."

I click the end of the pen over and over again, refusing to meet her stare. I want to rip the page out and try again - it doesn't feel passionate enough. Instead I sit in silence.

"Do you think it helps, writing things down instead of saying them out loud?" She asks like she's trying to dig her claws right into the mushy centre of my brain. I'm a test subject to her, a means of science. A fascinating enigma. "There are no wrong methods of communicating your thoughts."

"Aren't you supposed to recommend that I keep a diary for this kind of crap?"

"You can if you want to," she responds, surprised I would suggest something of my own initiative.

I have a sick idea bubbling in my chest, and I know words aren't enough to satisfy it but they could be a good place to start. I have to conjure up a plan to take action. I have to do something to make this better.

"Diaries are supposed to be private," I drawl.

"You wouldn't have to share it with me, Frank." She catches on to my wish for privacy. Five minutes left. Yeah, I could keep a secret diary, alright. Except it wouldn't be a diary - it would a list.

I still have my dad's Remington 870.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Alicia doesn't show face again at school and Mikey feels the tingling sensation of anxiety mute down into a low buzz of despair. With nobody out to question him or hold him accountable, he's free from trouble, but somehow that makes the pit in his stomach that much more acidic. He used to spend his waking moments turning over his shoulder, expecting the enraged sibling of Marcos or Teri or the rest to stick a knife in his back, or the cops to bust down his front door when they learn of his involvement with tormenting the local serial killer.

If only he had been nice to me that day in music. If only he could turn back time and scream at his freshman-aged self to stick up for himself and not just cower in the corner like a sheep following the masses. But Mikey Way isn't a unique, special snowflake; he has the personality of a brick wall begging to be knocked to its knees.

He spends most afternoons after school at Pete's. As long as Pete's parents keep taking weekend breaks and long, evening yoga classes, the house is all theirs. While there's a cooking class going on in the closet city, Mikey advances on Pete and showers him with affection, completely unaware of the mess he's going to get himself into, sneaking around like a two-dollar escort (but they haven't quite circled back around to sex yet; Pete doesn't complain).

It acts as a secure distraction for both of them. Something this traumatic happens to you, you don't just snap your fingers and get over it like a bad breakup or a pet's euthanasia. This kind of darkness sticks itself to the inside of your heart for as long as you live, and don't they know it too. They make the best of a bad situation.

On the one odd day that Mikey spends the night at his parents' and doesn't have to lie about spending time with a new friend his own age, he wakes up feeling as low as he usually does. Closing the door on the way out quietly so it doesn't wake anyone else in the house, he's surprised to see Pete hanging about his mailbox.

"Come to walk me to school?" he presumes.

Pete unfolds his crossed arms and shows Mikey what he's holding. It's a fish in a bag of water.

Mikey can't help but crack an amused smile. "I didn't know the carnival came to town."

"It didn't. Don't ask me where I got this thing." He carefully hands it to Mikey. The goldfish does a little crazy dance as its habitat swishes back and forth with the movement of the bag. Pete continues, "I got you a tank but it's pretty big so to save the effort of moving it, I thought it'd be best to keep it at my house. Gives you that much more reason to come over."

"Do you know anything about keeping goldfish alive?" Mikey would be lying if he says he isn't a tad concerned about the maintenance. The Way household has never had a pet before. His parents wouldn't have the patience to deal with an additional mouth to feed, even if did only have the life expectancy of a few years.

Well, that's the kind of number Mikey could only hope to achieve. It seems reasonable, but what does he know about goldfish?

"Not really but, hey," Pete says with a hand falling to rest on Mikey's shoulder, sensing his skepticism, "we'll figure it out. And if you don't want him, it'll be my full responsibility. There's always a Plan B."

"No, I like it - him, you said?" He stares at the creepily unblinking creature. It's weirdly comforting already. "Does he even have eyelids?"

"Nope. Again, don't ask me how I know." Pete stalls before managing a grin. "Okay, he was Patrick's but someone accidentally spilled some Pepsi in his tank and Patrick thought he was a goner, until I grabbed the closest plastic bag and scooped him up to revive him. Well, I didn't revive him; I don't think you can do CPR on a fish. I just waited and crossed my fingers and he came back to life, and Patrick said he was better off with me. His name's Joe, by the way."

"We have a pet," murmurs Mikey then jokes, "this relationship is moving at a dizzying pace."

"Just thought it'd make you happy for a change." Pete shrugs with nonchalance.

The dark cloud over Mikey's head grows heavier. It's a feeling he can't seem to shake. They stop at Pete's house on the way to school to drop off Joe in his tank and for a split second, Mikey makes eye contact with the clueless fish. Those big black orbs glare straight through his soul like they're desperate to tell him the secrets of the universe.

It must be easy being a mindless fish swimming about in a decorated tank until you keel over and bite it. The same water, same food at the same time each day, same company. You wouldn't have to think of or fear anything. Mikey envies that simple life.

But sometimes more than anything, he just wonders what it would be like were he not here at all.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

"I want to smoke."

Gerard's morning voice pulls me out of my thoughts as I stand by the front door, not wishing to smoke in Ray's presence as if I'm worried he'll think less of me.

I have about a million different retorts in mind to make him feel bad, but decide on a simple, "No."

The wind catches his hair and blows it back from his face. He sits down on the porch and I fiddle with the knife in my pocket, smoothing my thumb over the wood. I keep it on me at all times, trying to mean what I said about not hurting Gerard but still nervous I'll need to. I guess that dream got to me too.

"Why not?" He whines.

"Because 'cigarettes are bad for you'," I quote him with a roll of my eyes and a drag of the stick of poison between my fingers, "you damn hypocrite."

"Doesn't mean I don't want one."

"The soil's soft around here," I go on, "makes it easier to dig your grave."

"Frank..."

"Stop whining about it," I grit through my teeth like I'm scolding a badly behaved child, "they're expensive and they're mine Gerard, you're not getting one."

He flinches at my use of his full name and stands next to me. "You-you do it, so why can't I? I'm stressed out."

"Aren't we all?" I mutter, taking a puff and inhaling down my throat, making an 'o' with my mouth and blowing out rings. He watches me like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"How did you get into smoking?" he asks to sort of change the subject.

I almost want to tell them the story of the boys bathroom in school when I was younger, being offered one by the first nasty group of people I knew. How I burned the end of the stick on exposed flesh and got screamed at and dragged away. Maybe if I could take that back, everything would have stopped - nobody would have been out to get me and I could've gotten on with my normal life. Of course, that was before my parents died and everything went to hell.

"I was a silly kid," I explain instead, "who had nobody around to tell me it was a bad idea." I tongue my lip ring and stare at the cop car we have parked out front. Maybe I should find a sheet to cover it with in case someone drives by and gets suspicious.

"Frank, are we really going to Mexico?"

I don't know. "Yes," I say just to toy with him, growing impatient of his pointless questions.

The truth is I have no idea what I'm doing. Like I said, I really didn't plan on getting this far alive, taking anyone with me or bumping into Ray Toro. Maybe I should've roped in Pete to do some of the dirty work for me. I don't know what his deal was but he seemed to just do whatever I said and God knows why he didn't turn me into the police, even if he was my friend. I could've had my revenge without ending up running from the cops.

I tap the ash off my cigarette and Gerard asks another question.

"Are your parents really dead?"

Before I register what I'm doing, my hand comes into contact with his cheek, sending him spiralling into the wall then onto his back with a jolt.

I hit him.

Neither of us move for a split second that seems to last forever, then he puts a hand to the inflamed side of his face and doesn't break his eye contact with me as if when he looks away, I'll do something else. Staring at me like a real victim, but most of all with betrayal. Right - I said only last night that I wouldn't hurt him unless I was required to. I suppose this doesn't fit the excuse list.

"I'm going to get milk, do you need—" Ray appears at the door but stops short when he sees Gerard sprawled across the porch and my hands clenched halfway into fists by my side.

The cigarette wobbles from the corner of my mouth. "We don't need anything." I look away from the mess I've made. That's right, Frank, just pretend like your problems don't exist and maybe things will just fix themselves. I should work on my short temper.

"Okay." He looks between the two of us, clearly overwhelmed and pitying Gerard. He jingles his keys and smiles nervously. "I'll be back soon." Then he practically runs to his car. I'm sort of glad he's also on the run from the cops (or that they think he's dead, I guess) since he's not going to be telling tales on me being a bad kidnapper. Not that there's such a thing as a good one, it's just... maybe I could be a little kinder especially after the display of affection I showed Gerard last night.

Gerard gets to his feet, his knees trembling and a single angry tear hanging from the lower eyelashes of his right eye. He obviously wants to say something but is scared of how I'll react.

"Don't ever bring that up again," I say simply and stomp out my cigarette.

He knows what I'm talking about and quickly nods in understanding. I'll give him props for not trying to run right now, especially since he knows fully well now that I can hurt him - that I have hurt him - for the most minuscule reason. But there's nothing and no-one around for miles to help him. So I don't feel concerned when I turn back inside and leave him on the porch by himself.

After a while, I (figuratively) kick him back in the house and lock him in his room like a rowdy kid. Mostly I don't want to have to face him. I tell myself I won't let him guilt-trip me.

I have a few more hours to just sit and think. Think about everything. A few more hours to stew over whether I should feel bad I hit him because it was overkill and unnecessary. I hate myself for even considering the fact I messed up. I brutally slaughtered five school kids, and I dare to feel remorse over slapping someone across the face one time? I feel like lying down and sleeping forever.

What was the song he sung?

'I never said I'd lie and wait forever'?

What's that supposed to mean? Is he - was he - in a relationship with someone before we left? A woman? Was he in love with her? Not that love even exists; it's a pointless notion that human beings conjured up to further will themselves to pro-create. And soul-mates? Don't get me started.

I promised that I wouldn't be irrationally abusive toward him and I lied. But why should it matter?

The sketchbook lies shut on the coffee table in front of me. I set down my coffee and run a hand through my freshly washed hair. Don't look at it. Why should I look at it? I won't. I'm not in the least bit curious to look at the drawing of myself again.

I snatch it as if another pair of hands were lingering over it, as if it could be taken from me. I open it and there I am, sketched, rough around the edges, more alive in a drawing than I am in the world. More real on paper than in my own body. Something beautiful is trapped within the page. I blow out a frustrated breath.

I float to Gerard's room and sigh, and he hears it, because suddenly I can tell he's pressed against the door and he's pausing before choking out, "You said you wouldn't hurt me. I trusted you."

I scratch my knuckles down the door, catching them on the decaying wood, then I kneel down and push the sketchbook and a pencil through the crack at the bottom. It disappears into the darkness of his bedroom. I shut my eyes, exhale and press my forehead to the door, tempted to tear it from its hinges.

"I guess I'm not a trustworthy person," I hint.

"I don't know what to think anymore," Gerard whispers, "I don't know who you are."

"You know who I am." I want to scoff at his wilful ignorance. "Do you want to know how long I planned taking them out? Do you want to know every detail, every method I considered, how I wanted to make it slow and make it hurt?"

"Stop it," he hisses.

"I never pictured myself in this situation but I'm not saying I never considered kidnapping. One of them, that is. Maybe I'd have taken Darren for a drive out to the country, took a turn into a little dirt road off Route 95 in the darkness where nobody could find us. Spend the night sawing off his fingers then everything else until I drain him of blood, and leave his body hidden just long enough for me to go after the others."

"Frank." His voice comes out muffled like he's pressed his hands to his ears and doesn't realise the volume hasn't changed.

"You expect to be able to change me already, like I'm not an irredeemable lost cause. Like you're not stuck with the lunatic who killed the kids you went to school with." I shake my head. "It's too late for me to be a different person. Don't think that I can be fixed."

"What?" He whispers in confusion.

"We all go to hell, Gee; there's no reason you should die trying to get someone else to heaven."


	9. Higher Levels Of Trauma

_C h a p t e r | N i n e_

**Present Day - Frank**

"Why?"

I shrug then remember he can't see me. "There's no 'why'. There just is."

"So you believe in heaven and hell? How about an afterlife, spirits?"

"Are you deliberately pestering me with your incessant questions because you know I can't hurt you with the door in the way? Because I'll break it down to come in," I snap tersely, "and bring back the notion of the gag."

Surprisingly, to my secret pleasure, he doesn't shut up. In fact, I love hearing him talk - the sound of his voice, his accent, the way his mouth twitches to one side, his smile.

Get it together, Frank.

I've never been shy or quiet. I like to talk so I suppose it feels less awkward when my conversations are a two-way street. It fills up the silence. I guess talking with me can't be easy if all I seem to mention is murder and getaway plans to Mexico. I realise he knows nothing about me but I don't know whether I want that to change.

"I never believed in a God, not when there's s-so much suffering in the world," he admits, a little on edge at my threat. "Or maybe I did, once." Probably before I came along. "But - I mean, there's got to be something out there, some higher power of nature watching over us. It's comforting to think that way, that you don't end when your life does. Maybe we're reincarnated. Ghosts, perhaps." I hear his pencil scribbling across paper as he draws something new.

"Gee, what was that song you were singing?" I can't help but to ask.

The sound of sketching stops for a split second then resumes. "I call it 'The Ghost Of You'."

"Is it about someone?" Maybe I shouldn't be so nosy. What if the subject is dead? That would be awkward.

"My... mom," he gets out reluctantly, "she's still alive, it's just - she's not the same as she was when I was a kid."

"You don't have to explain it," I assure him. He must think awful of my mood swings - I whacked him across the face less than a few hours ago and now I'm chit-chatting with my back to the door. Hell, I have nothing better to do; may as well try to get to know the guy I'm shacked up with indefinitely. And I do have a weird feeling about him and his past, a sort of protectiveness. An unusual dislike for his mother already despite never having met the woman.

"I want to," he insists, "I've never told anybody what happened between us. It's time I talk to someone."

"Your abusive kidnapper?" I doubtfully raise an eyebrow and pull my lip ring between my teeth.

"Can I make a deal with you?"

I narrow my eyes, feeling my mood deflate. I don't like the idea that my authority is dissipating and he's forgetting that his life is in my hands. I'm not here to negotiate. "I don't know, do you think that's a wise idea?"

"Just-just hear me out..." He shifts against the door, clearly anxious. "I swear I'll tell you everything about me because I know you want to know, only if you..." He swallows in uncertainty.

"If I what, Gerard?"

"Tell me something about your parents," he blurts out, "I know you said you didn't want to talk about them but I have to understand, Frank. I have to know why you went after my brother because I get it, sometimes we have sibling rivalry and don't get along and I fight with him, but Mikey would never solely inspire anybody to try to kill him. It can't just have been him, or those guys he was friends with. Was it because of your parents' death?"

"What are you, some kind of shrink?" I'm not sure whether to burst out laughing at the ridiculous bravery and nerve of this kid or to kick down the door and choke him. I snicker darkly and say, "I admit, that's bold of you. I could throttle you. Maybe I'll revisit the Route 95 idea, since you're clearly goddamn asking for it."

"F-Frankie—"

I haven't heard that nickname in a long time and something about it just snaps the last nerve keeping my body together.

"You did it, you crossed the line." I get to my feet and unlock the door, pushing my way inside.

He quickly backs away, holding up his hands in surrender and babbling, "Wait - wait, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay? I have a big mouth; I never know when to shut up. Frank, you don't want to do this. Just—"

"Stop talking," I cut him off. He shuts his mouth and falls onto his back on the bed, scrambling away until I've backed him into a corner. Leaning over him so his breath catches in his throat, I'm once again completely perplexed as to what I'm doing. At the sight of him, it's like my anger becomes irrelevant. It's still there but I don't exactly want to take it out on him right now, but I sure as hell want to do something else. Gerard swallows in unease, anticipation.

"I take it back—" He quickly starts again, watching me intently.

I place my index finger on his lips. "Shut up."

I kiss him.

And goddamn, it's like he expected it because he reacts immediately, moving his hands to my hair and softly tugging at the black mess, pushing himself to mould against my body and opening his mouth. A gentle and unsure peck on the lips quickly turns into a full make-out session. My hands reach down his back and he wraps his legs around my waist.

His breathing stops and he arches his back when I dig my nails into it. I feel the skin tear beneath my fingers. Right. Masochist. What does that make me again?

I manage to get his shirt off without ruining it this time and throw it across the floor somewhere. I bite down hard on his lower lip, knowing he'll get a kick out of it. I taste blood and run my tongue over it, and he lets out a string of curse words into my mouth, though not exactly with hatred. I smile, concluding he's most definitely a masochist. My hands run up and scratch at his chest to make some more marks, exploiting this newfound kink. Is it that much of a surprise that I like hurting people after everything people have done to hurt me?

It's a sad thought in the midst of all of this and I quickly shake it off. Gerard's whiny moan brings me back to the present so my lips move to his neck and bite like I'm a damn vampire. He doesn't complain until I do it too hard, and he flinches. "Not so hard!"

"What makes you think you don't deserve it?" I bite down again and he stutters out a few syllables in response.

"I... I—"

"You went against what I told you," I breathlessly remind him in a low voice, "you provoked me and rebelled... against someone who should have snapped your neck already and called it a day. But hell, your sass betrays you every time. You deserve this, Gee."

So I guess this is it: Frank Iero's Grand Sexual Preference Reveal. Come to think of it, I've never had remotely romantic daydreams about any woman I've ever met - but nor any man. Gerard just came into my life at the wrong time and place but here we are, hot and sweaty. Am I supposed to label this like all the trendy Tumblr tweens? Have I just totally got the hots for Gerard Way? I can't believe I had never met him before. Maybe this revelation would've stalled me for a few weeks on the mass murder plotting.

I leave more hickeys across his neck, down his chest to his stomach, and he squirms in discomfort so I know it is still some form of weird punishment, but quiet moans slip out from his lips between it all so I know I'm not completely attacking him. My thoughts have turned into a buzz of white static. It's the best I've felt in a while, I won't lie, and I want to bask in the present physical sensations of it all. My hand mindlessly reaches for his zipper.

"Frank," he gasps, but his tone is different like he's coming back to reality, and he tenses up as if realising what's happening, "Frank, stop."

I huff in protest and suck on a sweet spot at his collarbone, knowing he won't be able to resist that, but he pushes me away and I fall back in shock.

Frustration at my erratic behaviour blazes as I come to. I punish him for his mistakes by making out with him? Stupid, uncontrollable hormones. Is it what I missed out on during puberty, getting totally wrapped up in the moment? But then he has the nerve to refuse me? I don't know who to be more mad at. My inner monologue is out of control.

"You weren't going to... you know... with me, right?" He chokes out between gasps for air and I finally look at him.

He's still awkwardly backed into the corner, his hands fisting around the bedsheets, his skin pale and with a thin sheen of sweat. He's overwhelmed with what just happened, inexperienced like me, and appears more than a little scared at the thought of what could've happened had we not snapped out of it. At least one of us has self-control. I don't know if I would be able to say no.

I slump my shoulders and inwardly kick myself. No matter our recent arguments, I would never engage with anyone in the way he's thinking unless they're in complete agreement with it. I may have hit him, and I might do it again, but I'd never touch him like that unless he gave permission to.

Which makes zero sense. Zero. Doesn't he know I'm a sadistic killer? Who's to say I wouldn't commit other atrocious crimes for my own benefit? My morals are all backwards but this is something I can think clearly about.

For the first time in my life, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made him feel unsafe sexually. I'm sorry I appear to be such a terrible person that he doubts whether I'd be able to hold myself back from having sex with him against his will.

"Gee, I'd never do that. You have no reason to believe me but..." I sigh and decide I forgive him for getting on my nerves recently. He's had enough trauma already; the fresh purple bruise on his cheek from slapping him matches the marks I've left with my mouth across his torso and neck. They look pretty painful.

"I'm not that low. I'm not sick like that." I insist earnestly.

He still looks doubtful but slowly nods like he's pulling himself out of a deep trance, a dreamlike state. He reaches down beside the bed to grab his t-shirt (fully intact) and pulls it over his head, blushing crimson. "I didn't think that would happen again." He's referring to the kiss. That makes two of us.

"Neither did I," I admit, "I didn't even know I was gay until this time, or at least bisexual."

His beautiful hazel eyes widen. "Oh. Well, uh, congratulations on figuring it out."

Despite everything, I actually laugh.

It's the later hours of the morning when Gerard's still laying in bed, his eyes tight shut and his arms immobile at his sides in attempts to lull himself to sleep, but it's not working. His hands feel insufferably sweaty. He's suddenly overwhelmed with the need to scrub at them, to peel back his skin and all the sins beneath it. Has it got something to do with kissing me?

He stumbles out of bed, reckoning it must be around nine a.m., and lunges for the door. I, of course, locked it, but after a few tugs and twists, Gerard finds it wasn't locked properly and he can get out. He's not going to bother with trying to escape again, knowing he won't find any car keys around to take him away from this place in the middle of nowhere - anyway, he'd have to break a window to physically get out of the house since they're all locked, and that would surely waking me.

He rubs his eyes in exhaustion and makes his way to the bathroom, flipping the light switch and turning on the hot tap. He fills up the sink with warm, soapy water, making it murky with a lavender hue, and begins washing his hands.

He unintentionally drops the bar of soap into the sink, and when he reaches deeper to relocate it, he can't find it.

"Damn it," he mumbles, splashing some water onto his clothes as he looks for the goddamn soap bar. Soon, he's reaching down deep enough that in his sleep-deprived mind, it looks like half his arm has disappeared into the obscure water.

Then the water is up to his shoulders, and his hands feel dirty.

Gerard dips his head into the sink, not entirely sure what's going on or why he's doing it. Undoubtably, there's something urging him further - to open his eyes and recognise what's around him. So he does.

He's not in the water - not really - but rather in a world of great haze and disconnection. He's standing in a field, much greener than the ones he's used to, and in front of him is an oak tree, significant in splendour. His hands absentmindedly reach for the bark, taking in the texture and noting how beautiful it would be to draw.

His fingers trace a shallow and almost unintelligible carving, a single word - 'evil', Gerard thinks at first, but the second letter doesn't look right. It looks more like an F. Perhaps it's a name he hasn't heard of. He looks up, assessing what's between the curling leaves and branches, and takes a step back in shock when he sees what - who - is hiding in the foliage.

"Gee!" Mikey exclaims, clutching to one of the branches in fear he may fall, but managing a smile nonetheless. "Come on, you've gotta come up here."

"Am I dreaming?" Gerard mutters.

"Come on!" Mikey shouts again.

"Mikes? What are you doing?" Gerard looks around the tree, wondering what he can use as leverage to get up but finding nothing. "Christ, how did you get up?" He mumbles to himself, then speaks louder. "Look, just come down. I'm worried you'll hurt yourself."

"I'm glad I can see you. It's been a while." He dangles his legs over the branches, kicking them out like a child on a swing. "Where did you go?"

"Mikey, come down." Gerard's patience wears thin, realising there's nothing he can do but stand and wait.

"But I'm scared of it," he says.

"Scared of what?"

"The ground." Mikey wonders if those goddamn bullies are lurking around down there; he's safe behind the leaves of the tree. "Gerard, I really miss you. And I'm sorry, okay? I was never the best brother - that was your thing - and I should've been... I don't know. I should've been there for you more, or got you some friends or something. I know what it's like to feel lonely, and I wouldn't wish that on you."

"Mikes," Gerard warns, turning to lean against the tree, sliding into a sitting position, "it's just a dream."

"I know but..." Mikey sighs. "It's a little comforting, right? I bet it's something you never thought of - how isolated you are. You may have people around you but they don't know you, and they never will - not like I do."

"I really miss you too," Gerard admits, wiping his face with his sleeve. God, he still feels wet.

"It's bad without you at home," Mikey explains in disappointment.

"How are they taking it?" Gerard asks, referring to their parents and to his kidnapping.

"Harder than you probably thought. They love you in their own way." Mikey's lips twitch into a small and crooked smile at this. "But not like I do."

The water at the back of Gerard's neck trickles down into his shirt. It catches on the edges of his collarbones, his Cupid's bow. It's in his mouth. He opens it to speak, near-choking.

Mikey's smile vanishes, replaced with a look of pain and sorrow as voices in the background begin to ring through. "I suppose that's your cue to wake up."

"GERARD!"

"God, just breathe!"

Gerard's head is pulled back from the soapy water in the sink by his hair, my hand forcing him upright. He takes in a long gasp of air, clawing at his throat and coughing wildly. They're in the bathroom, illuminated in the dark, at Ray's house - no green fields or trees. No Mikey.

"You should've left me in there!" Gerard yells, disheartened at the fact that he can't meet his brother - never again.

"You could've died!" I roar incredulously. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Gerard almost screams at me again before realising he doesn't have anything worthwhile to say. None of it was real - what's the use in mourning over it? His fantasies aren't worth drowning over. It was stupid of him to come to the bathroom when he was so tired, so close to falling asleep already - and when he did, it would've cost him so much if it hadn't been for me.

"You're lucky I heard and came to check on you - very lucky." I exhale in frustration. "Jesus. I know you didn't mean for this to happen. Just be careful and don't do anything else reckless, okay?"

Gerard wants to ask why I bothered to save him - why didn't I leave him to die? It would be convenient enough. "I'm sorry," he whispers, finally snatching a towel from the shelves to dry his face and hair with. He takes a seat on the toilet lid. "Can I have a cigarette?"

"No." But then I hesitate, planning my next move. "But we can go outside, sit on the porch. Fresh air will calm you down." I've realised how much Gerard is shaking. The water did quickly grow cold, of course, so perhaps that's why - yet the breeze outside should be minimal. It's almost summertime in the South; temperature isn't a problem.

"Okay," he agrees, letting the wet towel drop.

Out on the porch, the slight wind catches our hair where we sit. I made sure to grab my jacket with the knife in its pocket on our way out in case Gerard decided to try anything stupid. The boy with the still-damp hair doesn't show any signs of getting to his feet and taking off.

The moonlight shines on the bruises on Gerard's face. It reflects nothing from my eyes - not the smallest twinkle. But my lips tingle from when we kissed.

>

**In The Past**

"Doesn't your friend Pete like him?" Ray chucks another log into the flames by his feet - it's a cold January night and his parents are in the next room where the radiator isn't broken. It's a good thing he has enough basic survival knowledge to know how to make a fire.

I kick my feet up on the loveseat. "Mikey Way? That kid's a dork with no personality and I don't think Pete knows he exists."

I wonder, if Pete actually does have a crush on Mikey, would he be mad if any harm was to fall upon him?

Ray and I have bonded recently. He's become a solid friend, my only true one, since my parents died. Pete is good to hang out with and I'd trust him with my life but that kind of crazy intense friendship isn't built to last - it feels like he's just passing through me sometimes, like an emotional tourist. Of course, there are certain things I would tell him but not Ray.

"Pete's constantly checking him out," Ray argues. He sits back down and flips through the TV channels playing lowly in the background.

"I'm telling you, they've never exchanged so much as a 'hello'. And there's the age difference, it's not like they could share classes."

"Mikey was in your music class last year," Ray says, waggling his eyebrows.

"Yeah, turns out he was really good at playing bass." When Ray settles on some crappy reality television for our evening entertainment, I act like it's more interesting than our current conversation.

"I heard he doesn't anymore..." The curly-haired boy trails off.

"He clearly has more important things going on in his life, like laughing when I get trapped in a gym locker for three hours." I roll my eyes. The thought of it makes my blood boil. I've been noticing lately that I've kind of developed rage issues and those bullies haven't done anything to help calm me down.

My parents were my saving grace in this world, always there after a long day at school to embrace me and fill the air with the smell of love and home cooking. Those memories consume me and Ray notices my silence, turning the TV off to focus on me with a furrowed brow.

"Hey," he says, "should I fetch the hard stuff from the kitchen?"

I chuckle, not sure if he's serious or just kidding. Ray's parents are liberal and probably wouldn't mind too much as long as we measured our alcohol intake with moderation. Still, I shake my head. "It's okay. You know I'm not much of a drinker."

"You've got four years before it's legal to change your mind." Ray smiles but it slowly becomes tight. "Smoking though, huh?"

I grimace. "I know, I know. It's a habit I can't shake."

"I don't judge," he replies happily.

No, he wouldn't judge my cigarette addiction. The other things that appear in my head when I'm low, however, would be a different matter.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

"I didn't agree to this," Mikey reminds the people cornering him after, unsurprisingly, the Detective arrived back at school this time with an entourage of men in black suits. The questioning has become official and they're on their way to the police station much to his dismay.

It's announced there's going to be an intense round of questions that should last at least an hour. Mikey thinks the school will have turned the other cheek when it comes to his regular absences. He hasn't seen Pete this morning but doesn't need to be told not to mention anything about his new fling.

"You don't have a record," Alicia tells him, "being a minor, of course. But what's fresh in the sheriff's mind is when you got a warning for trying to steal from a liquor store about a year ago."

Oh God, can't people just let that go already? What is she getting at here?

"I imagine your parents didn't take that very well," she guesses.

No, they did not.

"We're here," the cop driving the car announces, cutting off whatever point she was trying to make. Mikey willingly heads straight into the station to get ahead of his shadow.

He's taken to an interrogation room like the kind you see in movies, only it's made less dramatic by a lack of a glass wall and there's a window allowing natural light to flood the seating arrangement. But it's never exactly going to be inviting.

Alicia is terrifically cunning, knowing what Mikey would prefer is soothing attention and not harsh nitpicking. So when Mikey takes a seat, the woman's expression softens subconsciously, locking eyes with the defensive boy at the table.

She gives the suited men a thin-lipped smile then watches them leave. Mikey sighs in anticipation, preparing for some 'friendly' questions. He lets his eyes sweep the room to check for hidden cameras - not that it would matter since Alicia's already placing an incriminating recording device on the shining surface of the table and switching it on.

She starts, "How about we get to know each other?"

"I'll pass."

"Michael—"

"Okay, first thing about me: I go by Mikey." He's falling for it already. He doesn't know how long he can keep up the innocent act; she's good at her job and she sees straight through him. He taps his nails against the underneath of the table, awaiting a response.

"Mikey," Alicia says slowly, "we want to help you."

Where has he heard that one before? "I told you, Frank didn't like me. In fact, he couldn't stand me. Most people would stay away from me too."

"And why would that be?"

He tenses up further. Alicia notices this like she notices every small detail, and it isn't what she's aiming for. She's a big believer in honesty, because honesty gets you brownie points and trust (which works both ways). She doesn't want to intimidate the kid because that's what he is - just a kid. He doesn't deserve any of this no matter what he partook in, and she knows it's something.

"I want a mutual understanding," she admits, "that's all. I looked past the snide look I got from the sheriff when I brought up your liquor store scandal. I didn't pay attention to the deeply despairing eyes I got from your teachers when I asked who the shy bass player with the glasses was. I can tell you want to start afresh, and so do I. You're not a criminal, Mikey."

That last part admittedly brings tears to his eyes. He quickly swallows them back down.

"And we don't intend to charge you like one." She switches off the recording device to his confusion. "I need information regardless of where it comes from so we can start handing out sentences where they're due. I have a feeling you're in with the bad crowd and you don't want to give out that info but I'm here to assure you that you're safe from them and from your past or anything else that could hurt you."

He wants only to feel Pete's arms around him now, to bury his face in the older boy's chest and forget about this whole nightmare of a life. To drift away into oblivion.

"Please be smart about the protection I'm offering you," Alicia continues, "because it's real, Mikey. I'm an adult, an accredited expert in my field and I have a lot of backup. Nothing that anyone else can promise you will compare to that."

Mikey gets it. What she's saying is that if he's willing to rat out his friends, she'll do her best to keep the sharks at bay and shelter him. Some of his demons live inside him though, and the only way to expel them would be to rip apart his skin.

"What's gonna happen if I..." If he speaks another word.

Alicia tells him without blinking, "What's going to happen is your life is going to change forever."


	10. My Loveliest Phone Calls And Mistakes

_C h a p t e r | T e n_

**Present Day - Mikey**

"Mikes!" Pete's yelling at his loveliest fixation who's walking further into the distance and away from him. Mikey turns back around, looking straight at Pete past the students leaving the building as school ends. "Sorry, I mean," he pants as he catches up to him, "I didn't mean to call you that, I know you don't like—"

"It's fine, Pete." He shrugs one shoulder carelessly, just relieved to see him. It's like coming home, but a lot better, which is a worrying thought. "I don't mind."

"Where were you today?" Pete asks worriedly.

Mikey only had time to tell Alicia the story of how he met Frank and a few details about his questionable friendships. Alicia promised she wouldn't repeat anything outside of her circle of investigators and police, not even to his parents. What he's most guilty about is the fact that he found himself trusting the Detective, and maybe starting to warm up to her too.

He didn't say anything about Pete. It's a no brainer that he doesn't wish to. At the end of the day, he hopes he can get away with leaving Pete out of this, and besides, what does he really know about the boy anyway? He has no insight into his friendship with Frank other than it seemed like a big waste of time and a mistake. But what if Pete was partially behind the shooting schemes and subsequently is part of the reason that Gerard is gone? Mikey can't bear the thought.

"I went back home," he lies somewhat convincingly, "forgot my money for the cafeteria so I just ate back there." Come to think of it, he hasn't had anything since breakfast but all the lies and truths he's telling combined are making him nauseous and unable to stomach anything.

"You wanna hang?" Pete suggests, noticing how upset the younger boy is.

"God, yes." Mikey sighs in delight, following Pete across the playing fields. Yes, sometimes he wants to hang in all senses of the word.

Once they're outside, Pete huffs nervously, "Mikey - just cut the crap, alright? I saw those police-looking people come up to you and I saw you go with them, with that woman. I'm not mad at you, Mikes, I just want you to be comfortable enough around me to tell the truth."

Run me into a corner, why don't you, thinks Mikey.

"They sort of blackmailed me," he fibs, "and... I mean, it's just me left, isn't it? All the other 'suspects' that drove Frank to do what he did are dead." Which makes it weird that they're already talking about handing out sentences where they're 'due', though he conveniently doesn't mention this. "The cops need someone to pin it on, but they told me that if I could tell them all that I knew and who was involved..." His eyes anxiously meet Pete's, unsure if it's right to be confiding in him with this. "I'd be off the hook."

"You told them about me?" Pete presumes in disappointment.

"No!" Mikey hurries out. "No, I told them about how I meant Frank and my friends. That's it, really. I still felt bad for it even though they're..." He shakes his head. "They want answers for the families, I get that. But they're gonna call me back in soon. I'm scared, Pete."

"You're scared?" Pete puts a tentative hand on Mikey's shoulder with a frown and a soft, understanding voice. "What would make you less scared right now?"

Mikey's still looking into his eyes, wondering about distractions and if they're worth it or if they'll really work. His gaze moves to Pete's lips before he's backing away in denial. He can't do that. He's never felt so conflicted and confused. When he's with Pete, it feels like he's using him to get over the horrors of what happened, and not because he's attracted to him or likes him (though those things are also true).

"I can't," he mumbles, casting his eyes down again. That's all he can seem to do these days - look away from the world that's moving around him.

Pete nods, not wanting to push him too far. Still, he says, "You know you're the light in my life right now."

It's a lot of pressure to put on someone. Mikey dwells on the words and soaks them up and decides, yeah, he could use some light just now himself. He lunges forward and kisses Pete with all his might and emotion, and his heart jumps to life.

In the middle of the kiss, he hears someone clear their throat and he immediately pulls away. Standing by them is one of the men he recognises from the Detective's company, and his concentration is on Pete.

"Pete Wentz?" he asks and Pete nods silently. The man juts his chin to the parking lot. "You're up next for twenty questions if it doesn't bother you."

The dark-haired boy nods, fearing the worst. Even if Mikey hadn't said anything (and he couldn't have mentioned anything too incriminating, since he doesn't know of Pete's involvement in the shooting), he knows he's in trouble. This is a hole he's going to need a lot of strength to dig himself out of.

"Detective Simmons is working Monday," the cop or investigator or whoever he is speaks as Pete starts walking to the parking lot, "do yourself a favour and head over to the station yourself after the weekend. The publicity of getting forcibly picked up doesn't bode well for anyone."

Mikey gets the message loud and clear and agrees. He watches Pete as they get into a cop car and drive away, hoping no-one else has acquired the same sinking feeling he's had for a while now.

He settles for going to check on Joe the goldfish at Pete's house. It's better than going home. He cries.

>

**In The Past**

Sweat collects at the back of my neck. My parents left me a decent amount of money - not enough to keep their house but enough to get me set up in an apartment of my own. The last of the boxes lie taped up in the corner, filled mostly with their possessions I can't bear to throw away. Pete's helped me move the bigger pieces of furniture and assembled a bed, hung some clothes up in the wardrobe.

My dad's shotgun is in here too. For the longest time, I wanted to sell it or give it away. Plans can change.

"Pete," I say thickly and he stops flattening the cardboard to pay attention to me as I point to the weapon in the corner, "tell me I should get rid of it."

He stares at me then at the gun with confusion. "Yeah, I reckon it'd be worth a pretty penny."

"What if I kept it?" I don't exactly know where I'm getting at - or that's what I tell myself to sleep at night. In reality, I can think of a few good reasons to hang onto it. I wander over to my new bookshelf and pull out a notebook to show him. "I think you should take a look at this."

Maybe I'm showing him this as a cry for help, a desperate plea that he'll read what's inside and tell me it's wrong, take the idea right out of my head. He flips to the first page. "Marcos Black, Alan Brooks, Darren Lee, Leon Simmons, Teri Underwood... Mikey Way? What's this for?"

My therapist suggested I write a secret diary and like I said, I wrote a list: a list of the names of the people I want dead. I let my gaze trail back over to the gun and Pete follows it warily. Then it clicks for him.

"No," he says immediately, "you're not gonna - are you insane?"

"Probably." You've got to be to consider something like this.

"You want to kill them?" He steps closer to me and hands back the notebook with something akin to revulsion. "You know that isn't right, Frank. I get that they hurt you, that you're grieving your parents death and it's a lot to handle for a teenager. But this is never the answer."

"It would be worth it," I whisper, "to me."

"Worth dying over? Because you know you'd never make it out alive."

That's okay, too. "I... I don't think I can be talked out of this now."

There's silence as Pete takes in what I've said and the fact that I've said it to him and only him. He has the ultimate power to stop this, to call the cops and turn me in. The lives of the people on my list are in his hands as much as they are in mine. A million thoughts rush through his head as he struggles to form a sentence.

"I have a thing for Mikey," he admits at last, "could you at least leave him out of this?"

That's all he has to say? So Ray was right all along. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. "Aren't you going to run for the hills?"

Pete shrugs without meeting my hardened eyes. "I guess I should." He goes back to flattening the cardboard to put out as recycling, giving himself an easy distraction from the devastating topic at hand. "When will you do it?"

"I don't know," I answer, "soon."

"And Mikey?"

"You don't know him, Pete," I say, "not like I do." So that's it, then. This is my calling - the fact Pete is choosing not to do anything about it (and that's the most disturbing, amazing fact I've ever heard) means I have the green light to go ahead. I know I shouldn't treat his ability to zip his mouth as permission to kill a group of teenagers but I can't help it; I'm looking for any excuse to justify this.

"You get it, right?" I ask with edge to my voice. "My life has been literal hell lately. Most people get on and agree with their therapists' plan of action, or admit themselves to a crazy house. Maybe I'd be satisfied if I bought a one-way ticket out of this place and did some travelling to clear my head but... I can't. You know why I have to do this."

He says nothing, simply adding to the pile of flattened boxes. I guess I should buy some shells, then.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

Ray's television has only a couple of stations - some sort of shopping channel and the news, and seeing myself in a box with a shotgun rested on my shoulder, as unnerving as it is, is preferable to watching a couple of old women battling over a figurine of a dog from two centuries ago.

"Last week's high-school shooting is a topic rife within New Jersey and the rest of the States," the anchorman reports, "our hearts go out to the seven people lost during this horrific act of terrorism."

Seven? So, adding to who I killed, another two people died at that scene?

"The one and only positive outlook one could have on the situation is the fact that Frank Iero will not be back..."

How can they prove that?

"... as both himself and Gerard Way were pronounced dead the day of the attack." Footage of the chaos, bullet-holes and spills of blood, flashes across the screen, and body bags are laid out at the front.

"They're saying we're dead?" Gerard gapes and leans forward as if he heard it wrong. "Why?"

"It's probably a lie so the public won't panic about another attack. I mean, it's pretty rare that the shooter survives the shooting and doesn't commit suicide after, so if they said I'm dead, it makes everything easier. As for you," I muse, "maybe Mikey was giving the cops a hard time and they had had enough of lying to him that they'd find you."

They probably concealed our fake 'bodies' to the public eye and told everyone it was too disturbing to see, just so the world doesn't go crazy thinking there's someone still out there. That's possible, right?

Gerard looks worried. "Mikey thinks I'm dead?" It comes out as a question like he still can't believe it.

"I don't imagine he would know what to think." If I was that kid, I'd be worried sick but aware that I couldn't do anything about it. It must be torture for him. Good. I don't feel so good for Gerard though.

"I don't know how you live with yourself. Don't - don't know how you sleep at night."

Not so well.

"He has no-one to look out for him," Gerard huffs, "nothing to hold onto. I wouldn't be surprised if he snapped and did something rash..."

I roll my eyes, knowing he's referring to what I did. "Trust me, you have to be pretty messed up in the head to go that far."

"You took me away from the only thing that kept me going," Gerard sniffs with contempt. It's like he's become invisible to anyone that ever knew him; he doesn't exist if it's being said that he's dead. Maybe I should pretend to feel remorse about it all.

I bite my lip. "I'm sorry."

He gets up in disbelief without looking at me and bites back, "Whatever, Frank."

I can't yell at him for talking to me like that, not when he's just found out the world thinks he's dead - including the one person he cares about. Well, at least we're safe from the police.

Gerard slumps at the kitchen table, one hand holding his head beneath his chin, staring mournfully into space. I wonder what it's like to truly care about someone; I can barely remember my parents - just flashes, really. My mom's smile as I wave at her from the school gates. Watching my dad flipping a pancake out the window. Nostalgia. Together, they laughed; they were ridiculously happy. I miss coming home to a family after a long day, and a voice to pull me from my nightmares.

I barely remember them because I blocked out the day they died from my head. It was easier to pretend to function that way, to lessen the damage by closing my eyes and letting it drift away. When they were here, I couldn't imagine a world without them but now I can hardly remember that feeling at all. It was a response derived from surely undiagnosed PTSD.

So seeing Gerard with the same longing in his eyes that I have, I know I have to do something about it.

"What's Mikey's number?" My hands find their way to the table in the kitchen, flat against the wood.

Gerard looks pleadingly at me. "Frank, whatever you're thinking of doing, please leave him out of it."

"Gee, I'm not asking again."

It's not like I can do anything - the boy is almost a thousand miles away. But Gerard only shakes his head and trembles angrily beneath me. "Do it to me. I don't care what it is, just don't do it to him!"

Why does he think I'm going to do anything? I can't. I'm already taking a huge risk by doing this, knowing the call will be traced. If I'm quick enough, I hope it could go unnoticed.

"Gerard, I'm not going to lay a finger on him."

He still appears nervous and reluctantly recites his brother's number by heart. I type it into my phone and press 'call', turning on speaker phone and sliding it into the middle so we can both hear and speak. Gerard shoots up from his seat and holds a hand over his mouth.

Mikey answers. "H-Hello?" He's been crying.

I nod at Gerard who looks petrified. He exhales and his voice cracks when he talks. "Mikey, it's me."

Mikey pauses on the other end then starts sobbing. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I just - it's been so hard."

"I'm here now, okay? I'm safe. You're alright." Gerard cups his hands around the phone as if the thing is his brother and bows his head.

The boy hundreds of miles away is still crying uncontrollably, barely managing to get out a word. "You - you think you're funny? You want to play a joke on me? My whole life is a joke, this isn't adding to that."

"Mikey," Gerard breathes in despair at not being able to comfort him. Tears pool in his eyes. I hate watching him cry - if I had a heart, maybe it would break.

"Why are you calling?" Mikey whispers and sniffles.

Gerard hesitates. "I know it's been difficult, Mikes—"

"Who is this?"

Even I freeze as Gerard pulls back and stammers out, "But - but what do you mean? Mikey, I - it's me—"

"Look, if you're going to call me, at least say something! Surely that makes a more effective prank call, doesn't it? I'm sorry if my breakdown makes it hard for you; my brother's... gone." Mikey speaks as if he can't hear a voice on our end.

He couldn't - he can't - hear us.

"I'm here!" Gerard cries in desperation. "Why can't you hear me? I'm here! I'M HERE!"

"Is anyone even there?"

"Yes! Mikey, I'm here, I promise!" The tears escape Gerard's eyes and flow freely down his cheeks.

"I guess not... I'm hanging up." Mikey sighs.

"Please don't go Mikes, I need you," Gerard whispers and he chokes out a heart-wrenching sob when the beep goes off to indicate the call has ended. It was a hardly a few seconds we had and it changed everything.

He moves away from the phone as if it's a ticking bomb, backing away into the counters and hitting the back of his head, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe. "He seriously thinks I'm dead, he didn't—" Then he completely loses it, sliding down to the floor and screaming his brother's name in anguish.

I don't understand what happened. How could Mikey not hear us? The signal out here isn't awful and there was no interference on the other end of the line. Gerard was shouting into the receiver.

I pocket my phone and say coldly to Gerard, "It's not the end of the world. He's going to be fine without you."

Gerard shakes his head and scrapes his hands through his hair. "He's not okay, Frank. He's not okay!" I can tell he wants to scream again. My ears are ringing. "I'm not okay!" Suddenly he gets to his feet and walks up to me, shoving me on the chest. "It's your fault! You took me away from him! YOU RUINED EVERYTHING! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"

For some reason, I let him abuse me. He punches my chest, beats on my torso, kicks my shins, even slaps me though not nearly as hard as I hit him. It hurts a little but I suppose I deserve it. I don't have the strength to stop him.

"See what you've done to him?" Another weak attempt at a shove. "How dare you say he's going to be fine? There is nothing fine about this! You completely destroyed our lives!"

After a while, he loses energy and his abuse becomes weaker. Noticing that he hasn't done any real damage and that I'm still standing, he backs away in defeat and stares at his feet. His lower lip trembles and his breathing is erratic.

"I just miss him." He croaks. "I'm sorry."

I meant what I said, though - it isn't the end of the world. People move on and accept that the ones they love aren't coming back. I know a thing or two about that.

"Are you going to kill me already?" Gerard cries.

It's like speaking to a child sometimes - rather repetitive. "It's fine. Gee, it's okay." Mikey is strong, I'll give him some credit; I truly believe he'll get through this. Drowning out Gerard's sniffles, I give the room a sweep with my eyes. "God, Ray is never here; always out on his damn walks or wherever the hell he goes. And just because I'm feeling reckless today, what do you say we go out somewhere?"

"Out?" Gerard echoes incredulously. Am I not worried someone will recognise them, even if they are assumed dead? "Where?"

"I'm craving those fruits that are kinda like oranges..." I trail off. We can use our new clothes creatively, wrap scarves around our faces for disguise. I don't know how I trust him enough to be able to do this.

"Clementines?" Gerard suggests.

"Yes." I snap my fingers in approval. "God knows there's none around here. We've gotta go to the nearest market and buy - uh, steal some."

"Can you push me in the shopping cart?" Gerard manages a grin, finally over the weird phone call. "I always wanted to do that. My mom and dad never let me..."

"And we can get those smiling potato things for dinner." I recall my childhood with a small smile of my own.

"I'm ready." Gerard jumps up from his seat at the table and grabs a coat from near the front door. He hesitates then, staring at his feet. "I don't understand this," he mumbles.

"Understand what?" I dig my keys out from my pocket.

"I... I like you," Gerard realises in semi-horror, but mostly he appears confused and a little ecstatic. "I'm not supposed to. You do bad things and sometimes I hate you so, so much but... in times like these, I like you."

"It's called Stockholm Syndrome, Gee." I exhale, awaiting more questions as we leave the house and head for the police car.

Gerard slides into the passenger seat. I make sure to lock the doors when we're both inside. "Stockholm Syndrome?" Gerard wonders as I turn on the ignition and begin to drive.

"It's when you feel affection for the person who kidnapped you," I explain reluctantly, "it's completely irrational. Sometimes the human brain can work in strange ways - we latch onto the company we have, even if it's negative. I'm the only one you've got right now in your life, and you're scared - you think I'm going to hurt you and you'd do anything to avoid that, even if it means trying to get on my good side. Eventually your brain confuses these survival instincts with real sympathy and trust for the villain. It's a complex strategy."

"I don't understand." Gerard frowns.

"You subconsciously see me as a sort of twisted God." The corners of my mouth turn down into an awkward grimace. "I'm your provider. I give you small things in life - food, care, attention; basic things you need. You regress into a childlike way of thinking - like you need permission to do everything like a kid being punished. I'm the one that gives you the permission to live."

"What about you?" asks Gerard, quickly changing the subject. "What do you feel?"

"You make it hard for me," I mutter, "to put a gun to your head. There's nothing we can do but get to know each other."

Gerard feels sorry for me, and if that isn't the most messed up thing he's ever thought in his miserable life, he doesn't know what is.

"There's a lot of songs called Stockholm Syndrome," says Gerard, "like that blink-182 one, or Muse, or One Direction." He pulls a face at the last name, clearly not a fan.

"Maybe you should write one." I scoff. The conversation is starting to freak me out. Gerard blushes and remains quiet for the rest of the journey.

The nearest town has a large supermarket. I supply Gerard with sunglasses and nick a beanie from a nearby stall for him too. I pull my own jacket further over my face, throwing the hood over my dark hair. It's not great but I don't care enough to do better. Let them chase this lead if they wish.

"Look," Gerard says excitedly, pointing at an abandoned shopping cart in one of the aisles. It's big enough for one person to sit in it, even if it isn't designed for it.

"Go on then." I snicker, feeling like a parent letting their kid on the slide at a park. Gerard clambers into the cart, his fingers hooked around the metal bars at the front.

I push him slowly at first, stopping every once in a while to collect some food and whatnot that I want. I wonder if Ray steals too in fear of being recognised, or if he's moved past that and pays for it. It's been a while, of course, since he skipped town. I find clementines and the potato snacks my parents used to cook me for dinner and put them in the cart.

Once we've filled up the cart with all we can manage, minding Gerard is taking up most of the room, I start to run. Gerard squeals in surprise, holding onto the sides of the cart and laughing. I run down the aisles with a grin on my face, hair blowing behind me, totally carefree. It's oddly fun.

"Stop!" Gerard gasps for air between his bursts of laughter. "Frank, we're gonna crash!"

I stop then, giving Gerard time to regain his breath. Then I narrow my eyes, acquiring a target across the aisle with a devilish smirk. "Preparing for lift off in five, four..."

"Frank, no," Gerard warns me.

"Three, two, one..." I keep my eyes on the enormous stack of canned beans in front of us as I start to move. "Here goes!"

"No!" Gerard shrieks as I speed straight toward the mountain of food, hitting it perfectly in the centre. The whole thing topples in all directions. I yank the cart back so none of it falls on us. Gerard doubles over with laughter.

"You idiot!" He cries. "We need to leave - surely someone saw that."

"The whole goddamn store saw that, Gerard." I snicker, pushing the cart back toward the entrance with haste. There are security guards running around hopelessly inside like headless chickens, trying to find the culprits.

I find the car and open the trunk, throwing the groceries into the back. "Come on," I prompt Gerard who climbs out of the cart and helps to transfer them.

We kick the cart away and scramble to get in the car. Having just shoplifted what must amount to hundreds of dollars worth of crappy food (and being wanted by the police, although not to the general public anymore, it seems), we're quick to get away. What weirdly matters to me is the smile that remains on Gerard's face.


	11. More Blood Than Necessary

_C h a p t e r | E l e v e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

Gerard isn't the same after realising he's really lost Mikey.

Even after we hauled our groceries to the kitchen, light-hearted and in a collectively good mood for once, it was never going to last. It changes him, knowing that nobody is coming to look for him, especially not his little brother. There's no hope left.

He mopes around Ray's house with a storm cloud over his head. The bags under his bloodshot eyes are permanent. The depression he feels comes in floods, relentless, suffocating, oceans of tears that drown him. I don't know how to help.

He spends most of him time curled up on the sofa with his - Ray's - sketchbook, mindlessly feathering his pencil across the pages. Sometimes he sings, and sometimes he writes what he sings. He clutches the book like it's his life, and at night, he cries. He doesn't talk to me, only Ray, occasionally.

It's been a month we've been on the road. Weeks I've watched him suffer, speechless. It gets worse. He shivers and mutters Mikey's name when he's talking to himself, almost in a trance. I bet he does it in his sleep. It's been twenty-eight days since I took him, and today, I hear his voice clearly for the first time in a long while.

"Why don't you just kill me?" He mutters monotonously. "I'm better off dead, to everyone."

"That's it," I snap, stubbing my cigarette out in Ray's ashtray (turns out he doesn't mind me smoking), and Gerard barely looks up, "I don't know what to do, Gee. You're obviously depressed and I don't know how to handle it! Just tell me what I have to do to make this right." I clutch my hair with my fists.

"Shoot me," he suggests with a shrug.

I gape at him. "What about Mikey; you're just going to leave him?"

"He already thinks I'm dead, Frank."

"Would you do it yourself, Gee?" I change my tactics and talk through my teeth.

He watches me with distracting hazel eyes and hesitates before answering in a hauntingly cool voice. "Would that make you happy?"

"Goddamn it, no!" I slam my fist down on the coffee table. "I don't want you to die!"

"What else do you plan on doing with me?" He lets out a humourless chuckle. "Will I be your prisoner for the rest of our lives? Will you always have to worry about me trying to escape, locking my bedroom door at night, taking me everywhere you go? Will you live out your days in constant fear that someone will recognise us? What am I to you other than a liability? In case you haven't noticed, I don't have much to live for at the moment."

"Gerard." I'm struggling to keep my temper in check and I start to see red. It's one thing for me to act so carelessly with my own life, to jeopardise it by going into a high-school with a gun, but to hear him lose the spark and energy in his tone ruins me.

"For God's sake, give me the shotgun and I'll do it myself." He rolls his eyes. "You said it yourself; soon they'll be looking for a corpse and, well, now they are, if they're even looking."

I give him no warning before I grab him by the scruff of the neck and slam him against the wall, watching him shrink underneath me and his eyes widen.

"I see you're bitter about the fact I haven't left you to rot in a ditch already," I say, scarily calm, "and I'm not going to lie, it would make things a hell of a lot easier if you were. But I refuse to let you go and you're just going to have to deal with it, Gerard, because in all honesty I don't know what I'm going to do to you if I hear you speaking so gleefully about your own death again, so go ahead and let your anger out on me then you're going to shut up and you better start treasuring your damn existence. Understand?"

He starts to nod then freezes as he realises what I've said. "Let - let out my anger on you?"

I release him and he nearly falls. I didn't realise I was pinning him up against the wall so he couldn't even touch the ground. My heart is beating hard against my chest.

"Have at me, Gee. Here, I'll start us off." My fist collides with his nose and he staggers back and yells.

Okay, maybe I didn't mean to do it so hard. But this is different from the 'I'll try not to hurt you' kind of speeches I've been reciting lately - this is necessary. I hope I know what I'm doing, inflicting this kind of physical distraction to force away his mental agony. Mrs Nestor the therapist wouldn't like this.

"You could've broken it!" he exclaims, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding. He doesn't know whether to tip forward to stop himself choking on the blood, or tip back to stop it flowing so freely. Once he recovers from the initial shock, he launches himself at me with a furious cry, tackling me to the floor.

Once, twice, three times I let him hit me across the face. He can definitely pack a punch for someone so scrawny. My own rage bubbles inside of me and I flip him over so I'm straddling him and press my fingers to his throat.

He splutters and chokes before kneeing me between my legs then throwing an uppercut to my teeth. I groan and spit blood from my mouth then toss him by the shoulder across the room. He whacks his head on the wall then kicks his leg out to collide with my ribs.

We throw more punches at each other. He's already sporting bruises from what I've previously done to him and now matching black eyes are starting to arise on his face. He nearly knocks a couple of my teeth out with a jab to my mouth. Eventually I just hold him by the neck in a chokehold, ignoring the tugging at my arms as he tries to break free.

"I wanted," he gasps out, "in the - in the car at the gas station, I wanted—" Coughing and spluttering as I ease up just enough to let him speak. "Wanted to wrap the chain of my handcuffs around your - around your neck, from the backseat and just pull until—"

Until he killed me. Now that's the sort of passion I can appreciate. He slips from underneath my arms and pushes me onto my side.

"I wanted to kill you, Frank," he breathes. I wonder if he still does. He would never have the balls.

After what seems like an eternity of physically abusing each other, I finally manage to pin his arms to his sides beneath me without him wriggling enough to fight me off.

"I'm not done with you—" He starts to snarl but I silence him by putting my tongue down his throat.

He responds immediately, opening his mouth and cursing into the kiss. He wants to touch me in some way but I hold his wrists down and straddle his legs. He tastes like blood, anguish and fury, but the best part, undeniable lust. He bites on my bottom lip where blood was already spilling from a cut then tosses his head back, allowing me access to his neck which is marked with my fingerprints.

I let go of his hands to throw his shirt away (how many times has this happened already?) and even get to his jeans without him telling me to stop. A startled gasp leaves his swollen lips.

"Frank," he huffs.

"Frank what?" I dig my fingers into his hipbone and move my mouth down to his throat.

His breath hitches and he shudders. Goosebumps raise across his beaten torso and my tongue traces across his chest. "Frank, touch me," he begs. He reaches his hands to sprawl across my back then down to the back pocket of my jeans.

"I am," I tease with a smile.

I feel him take something out of my pocket and he uses the advantage of surprise to flip me over onto my back. I'm winded and shocked seeing him suddenly running to the door with the keys to the police car in hand.

The door is locked, of course, and Gerard only takes a split second to realise this before he's going for the closest window. I'm on my feet when he kicks a foot through the old pane and starts wiggling out, his injuries further aggravated by broken shards of glass. He lands on his stomach in the dirt and I go straight after him in blind fury.

We're so many miles from the nearest body of civilisation so he knows he isn't going anywhere without that car. He struggles to put the key into the lock and I use the opportunity to wrap my arms around him. His instant reaction is to scream and blindly thrash around to no avail.

I kick him in the back of the shin so he falls to his knees and he starts crying. I snatch the keys from where they've fallen on the ground and easily unlock the car, retrieving the shotgun that's still by the gas pedal.

"Please don't!" Gerard sobs when I pull on his hair with one hand. He reaches up to put his hands on his head. "I was so mad—"

"And now it's my turn." I manoeuvre the shotgun so he's staring down the barrel. He continues to cry, his eyes squeezed shut, determined to try to be blind to the reality of what's happening. He slumps, saving his strength.

I wobble a few steps back, taking a proper aim at the boy on his knees. "You knew it would come to this."

"Burn in hell."

I hit him quickly with the butt of the gun but he regains composure quickly.

"What did I ever do to you, Frank?" He wails. "Why do I deserve this, to die in the middle of nowhere by a shot to the head at barely seventeen years old? What did I ever do to you?"

What did he do to me? Nothing lasting, I note. I had a true motive for going after the people I did, for wanting to make them suffer. Gerard doesn't deserve to die - there's no doubt in my mind about that. Gerard is a selfless, kind person, willing to take a bullet to save his brother's life. Is this what he should be reduced to?

I lower the gun and grab my hostage by the neck and throw him onto the porch. Gerard gasps but doesn't attempt to shrug me off, too paralysed with fear. His hands are still by his head in a lame attempt to protect himself.

"Get in the goddamn house," is all I say.

I resist the urge to toss him in like a rag-doll myself. I wonder what gave him the courage to pull a stunt like this. Have I gone soft? This is all so confusing. I need a bigger element of fear installed in him for my own peace of mind. When we're inside, my eyes flicker over to the fireplace and a sinister idea appears in my thoughts.

"I'm cold," I deadpan, "build a fire."

It's May time in Georgia and we both know it isn't cold out. I sit on the sofa watching him as he does as he's told anyway, starting with small pieces of kindling before moving onto the bigger logs in the nearby basket. Soon enough there are glowing orange flames encouraging their smoke up the chimney.

"I'm gonna burn in hell," I recite his words, leaning forward, "right?"

"I didn't mean that," he tries to contend shakily.

"No, you're right. Doesn't mean I'm not gonna take you with me." I dive forward and grab his arm before directing it to hover over the fire. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his eyes widening as he realises what I'm planning to do.

"You're sick!" he snaps. "There is so much wrong with you, it makes me sick."

I push his hand into the fire. Gerard's scream is inhuman - like a creature tormented into the soil, tortured into oblivion, excruciated by the smell of the burning flesh he calls his own. He tries to curl his hand up, but the palms are more than a blistering red - they're almost a crispy white. His fingerprints are scorched, scarred and useless. The surface of his hand is in white-hot pain for what seems an eternity. The tears stream down his face like thick treacle.

I don't want Gerard to lose his hand completely - how else would I bear without those beautiful drawings he's been creating? I yank his hand back. The burn victim clutches his injured skin, letting out quick and sporadic breaths then settling for small whines of defeat.

He's too traumatised to speak for a moment before he utters, "Why?"

"You know why." I told him I didn't want to hurt him but that I would if he tried anything risky. I let him go completely, confident he won't be going anywhere anytime soon, but I'll keep the shotgun handy just in case. There may only be one shot left in it but that would be enough.

I direct him to the kitchen where he sits, his blistered hand near his lips as he continues to hyperventilate.

"You're lucky I care enough to take care of my own mess," I mutter, rooting around in the cupboards for a first aid box. A lethal infection is the last thing we need. Believe it or not, I still can't bring myself to let him die - I need him here. I bring out the equipment and give Gerard a stern look. "Let me see it."

Gerard reluctantly draws his hand back out, stiff and red. He sniffles back more tears. In his mind, there can be nothing good after such a punishment - no relief of any medicinal creams or painkillers. He expects the worst. I grab his wrist forcefully.

"Christ." I didn't realise it would be so severe, but I don't have time to think about that now. "I don't know how to deal with this." Goddamn it, I don't know jack about treating second - perhaps third - degree burns. The flushed colour of Gerard's face drains to a bluish tint as the blood rushes away from his head.

"Gee," I sigh, vaguely panicking at the thought of him passing out and dying of shock or something, "I'm trying to make it better, okay? Just stay awake."

I find an antibiotic cream in the kit, strong painkillers and bandages. Looking up at Gerard, I realise I won't be able to get him to the sink to run his hand under cold water - I'll have to bring a bowl of it over. So I fill up a large bowl then place it on the table. I try to take Gerard's hand but he whimpers and pulls it back, cradling it again.

"I need to do this," I tell him and at these words, Gerard slowly puts his hand back on the table. His sobs have died down into quiet, pained, temperamental noises.

As soon as I guide Gerard's hand into the bowl of cold water, he cries out in shock and squirms in his seat. Somehow, he finds it in himself not to tear his entire arm out of my somewhat gentle hold, understanding the burn needs to be treated and it won't be pretty.

"Sorry," I mutter almost incomprehensibly, taking Gerard's hand out of the bowl after a few moments, "this will probably be worse but you understand it has to be done, alright?"

He nods, nibbling on his bottom lip to stop sobs from escaping. He watches in dismay as I take a cotton wool ball coated with medicinal cream to the injuries scattered across his skin, gently rubbing it across the destroyed flesh. Gerard is still too scared to shout the abuse hovering on the tip of his tongue.

I examine the skin. "It isn't as deep as I first thought. I'll wrap it up - we'll keep it clean." Maybe I went too far.

Gerard pines for his captor. "Can I kiss you?"

I pull back, alarmed before beginning to wrap the bandages around his hand. "You're confused; you don't want to kiss me. You want to kill me, remember?"

He lowers his head, letting his eyes droop a little as he fights for consciousness. It's been a lot to handle, especially after the fight that started this off.

I grab his face in my hands with tenderness. Jesus, my mood swings are bad. "Tell me about Mikey. Give me an alternate viewpoint about the boy I hate so much."

Gerard squints, searching for suitable words in his head. "Warm... warm skin. Warm hands. Warm heart - for me, anyway. He has a... a warm mind; he's smart but he's loyal, and sometimes he feels it gets the better of him."

"Do you draw him a lot?"

"All the time. He has this edge to his face - like it's sharp and forceful, but the texture is gentle. His eyes have all these emotions in them; I like drawing them most. He's got strange shadows like waves across his cheeks, this little band of light across the bridge of his nose." His expression of focused reminiscence dissipates. "Reminds me of the pages of an aged book - so many creases and colours and grains and stains. I'm the only one who can read him as such."

"Sounds nice," I mumble. His words are beautiful poetry.

"'S not. People are so imperfect - their faces have countless flaws and asymmetric features that differ them from others." His tired eyes flicker to mine. "Your lips would be impossible to get right; never seen anything like them. Your irises are too dark, too intense. Your jawline is..." He trails off, tearing his gaze away. "Sorry. I'm too analytical - I always judge. I guess that's one of my big flaws."

"You're good at reading people. You can tell if I'm psychotic or a sociopath." I finish the careful wrapping, tying the remains of the cloth up and letting Gerard drop and relax his hand. The rest of our injuries will heal of their own accord - they're nothing major.

Gerard winces. "Maybe you're just..."

I don't think I need to be told I'm anything. I know I'm a lost cause. "I would've been on medication after my parents died if I wasn't so busy wallowing in self-pity. I thought I had some sort of personality disorder. You can tell it's gotten out of hand."

"Were your parents good to you?" he asks.

I nod. "They were the most important people in my life. The way I felt about them, I guess for you it's like Mikey."

"I hope he's okay," mutters Gerard, remembering his brother's tendency to get into trouble whether he seeks after it or not.

"What's going on?" Ray's voice causes both our heads to snap to him where he's frozen at the door with an open mouth, noticing Gerard's forlorn expression and the bandage.

"Taking care of a little accident," I lie, "didn't you go out?"

"I was - I - Is that... blood? Were you fighting?" Ray blanches and stares at me in horror or maybe disgust. "That's so messed up, Frank. Were you going to...?"

Was I going to kill him?

"No, of course not," I answer.

"I bought new flannels anyway, so you can use the old ones to clean up." He blinks twice at Gerard. "Are you both okay? Like, we don't have to go to a hospital?"

"Fine," I reply tightly then tell him we'll take up his offer on the flannels. Frustratingly, the shame won't fade from my cheeks.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

"Is that a yes?" Pete calmly awaits Mikey's response, biting on his lip.

It's a Thursday afternoon. After a few more sessions at the station with Alicia between the two of them (and neither of them have been cooperative in the slightest), Pete's eighteenth birthday came and went and somehow he's been acquiring a lot of alcohol lately (perhaps gifts from his friends). Mikey's used this to his advantage and likes to get drunk. Like, frequently. Including now.

"Yes to being your secret boyfriend?" Mikey sighs, turning away from his dazed admiring of Joe. Joe has such a normal life, swimming around aimlessly in that tank. Once again, Mikey's jealous. "I just don't get why it has to be a secret."

"It's just until September when you turn sixteen," Pete croons, wrapping his arms around the slender younger boy, "y'know, for moral reasons."

They have a lot on their plates right now with the questioning, with missing Gerard, with chasing up this whole investigation. Maybe Mikey could use a welcome distraction. He gives in. "Okay."

Pete grins from ear to ear, picking the boy up and swinging him around in delight. Even Mikey has to laugh a little between batting his arms to be put down, mostly because the spinning isn't helping with his intoxication. "Don't wet yourself, Jesus," he laughs, slightly slurring his words, "I do have a favour to ask."

"And what's that?" Pete's still smiling.

"Cook me a fry-up?" Mikey juts his lower lip out in an attempt to look like a humbled puppy. Pete pretends to be annoyed before agreeing.

After a very late breakfast (it's practically dinner at this point) and a couple more whiskeys, Mikey finds himself in Pete's lap smothering him with hungry kisses. He tastes like bacon and desperation and Pete's hands wander. Mikey wonders if he's ready to have sex again - was this Pete's plan all along, to make a good impression, provide him with alcohol to loosen him up and bed him? He'd have to be a lot more sadistic for those motives than he currently lets on.

"I'll take care of you," mumbles Pete against his lips, sensing Mikey's uncertainty. This is still illegal, given his drunkenness. Does that make it so wrong?

Mikey pulls back reluctantly, stopping the moment in its tracks. This man is playing tricks with his head, so naturally excellent at manipulating him that he doesn't even notice, much less care.

"Would you still like me as much," asks Mikey, aiming for a shot in the dark, a beacon of hope to continue this newly-born relationship, "if we waited for a while? Before we did anything... like that, again."

"Sex?" Pete raises his eyebrows and Mikey nods. "I don't want to lose you, Mikes." Mikey cringes at the nickname. "I want to keep you forever. You mean something to me." He hooks his finger under Mikey's chin, adding some afterthoughts. "We'll get around to it."

What if they don't? What if he's still scared, as much as he's quickly developed feelings for this older boy?

"Trust me," says Pete, "just trust me for now, and I'll trust you when you say you're not ready for this yet."

So in other words, sooner or later this conversation will come up again. Mikey can cross that bridge another time. He internally lets himself off the hook and smiles at Pete before crawling off of his lap to go feed Joe, forcing his mind to stay blank. It's always easier to think of nothing at all.


	12. Rest In Pieces, Unholy Father

_C h a p t e r | T w e l v e_

**Present Day - Frank**

The burn on Gerard's hand heals quickly. Really quickly. The memory of it stays a little fresher.

Ray says it's finally time I ought to do something other than fight and mess around with Gerard in his house, so now I'm with my parents who are six feet under in a Church graveyard. The funny thing is I drove two hundred miles north to be here, trusting that Ray would keep an eye on Gerard. Or not. Whatever.

I'm making a day of it. This graveyard right on the East Coast is a place we used to vacation when I was in elementary school and I decided it would be a fitting place to bury them. I wanted to stop by on the way to Georgia initially but I was too nervous of getting caught up with by the cops or the FBI or whoever cared enough back then.

"'Here lie Linda Iero and Frank Iero, beloved parents and friends, deceased October 31st 2014, now whom art with our Holy Father in Heaven.'" I tiredly light a cigarette. "I bet you wouldn't like me doing this." I blow out smoke and scoff at myself - talking to a couple of corpses who can't hear a word I'm saying.

They died on my birthday, a year and a half ago. I set some flowers on the grass beneath my feet and cross my legs, staring blankly at the stone. There's a crack on it, slightly golden underneath the morning sun, down the middle between their names as if the world tried to separate them - or just some anti-social drunken teenagers.

"'Holy Father in Heaven'," I repeat mockingly then take another drag, "you believed this nonsense? That you would go to a better place? You're just stuck underneath me in a coffin; you're not going anywhere. You refused to open your eyes to the truth and see there's no God, no magic man in the sky to solve all your problems, no system of justice in Heaven or Hell.

"People die, mom and dad! You died, then that was it! We don't get second chances or a decent legacy besides our will. It's not fair - God wouldn't let this happen. He wouldn't allow a heartless psycho to slit the throats of two innocents in front of a sixteen-year-old's eyes for no reason! I dealt with all the bullying after that on my own, without your shoulders to cry on, without your arms around me or your words to comfort me. You left me and I know you're not watching over me because you can't, because you're just gone, and you're never coming back. You can't save me, but maybe I deserve it because I couldn't save you."

And suddenly I'm consumed with fury, getting to my feet and throwing the pack of cigarettes into the fog settling around the cemetery gates. Everything has turned to nothing - I wanted Marlboro Reds but they were sold out so there's only a petty Light between my lips. Gerard is in my head and I can't get him out; Gerard is messing with my mind, and I like it - no, I adore it.

It's like he's the thing tying me down but also the parachute preventing me from falling to certain death. The one person keeping me from going totally off the deep end. It's changed my life - I spent years thinking I was emotionally unavailable, that there was something wrong deeply rooted in my psyche. Commitment issues, mental detachment, a bad personality - whatever it was, I never thought I'd get a shot at happiness with another person. And suddenly I find myself with gut-wrenching despair for how I've treated him, because he'll never be happy with me.

My phone rings and it takes me a few seconds before I can bring myself to answer, rolling my eyes at who it is trying to reach me. Way to tear me out of my thoughts. "What, Ray?" I snap. "I told you I was going—"

"Frank, it's Gerard."

I sigh and trace my fingers across the top of my parents' tombstone. I wasn't expecting that. I'm just so tired of being on edge all the time even if it's what I deserve. "Oh."

"You've been gone for hours, are you okay?"

He doesn't know how far away I've taken myself; I never told him exactly where my parents were buried. He must have assumed it was fairly close for me to think it was worth making the journey. Mindlessly, I'm backing away from their grave and toward the car until my back hits the door. "Yes." I open the door and clumsily throw myself inside like I'm drunk - really I'm just flooded with emotions I never knew I had.

"You don't sound okay."

"I'm fine!" I retort. "I told you I'm at my parents' grave. Not that you can relate with your happy nuclear family but some of us have gone through some trauma. Can't you just leave it and get off my back?"

He ignores the jab, well aware the trauma he's gone through at least matches mine, if not worse. "Please just come home."

I don't know why he would want me to come home. We can't even call it home since we're Ray's guests. If I were him, I would be secretly crossing my fingers and praying to any higher power out there that my kidnapper would die in a tragic car crash on the way back. I guess it's the Stockholm Syndrome we've been talking about. I'm annoyed at him for not using his brain a little better, for pleading for my return.

I hang up and start the drive back 'home'.

With about fifteen miles to go, the phone rings again. That thing drives me loopy sometimes. I don't know how the cops haven't traced and tracked it to find me, and I don't know why I haven't thrown it away. I pull into a hard shoulder and answer anyway, still in a mood.

"Is it still you?" I grumble, expecting Gerard.

"Yeah. I want to talk. No, we... need to talk about something."

"You don't get to tell me what to do, Gerard!" I start the car anyway. The longer I stay here, the further up my throat my breakfast crawls. I have to grit my teeth and press my tongue to the roof of my mouth so I won't projectile vomit.

"You're right," he agrees calmly, "but unless you'd rather talk on the phone about what's happening with us, we should be face to face."

Happening with us? Like the fact I grilled his hand over the fire like barbecue sausages? He is truly more delusional than I am.

"There's nothing going on between us," I laugh humourlessly and start driving, "but if you're so desperate for me to say that to your face, then fine, I'll be there in ten minutes." I hang up.

Eight minutes later, I practically knock down the front door. Ray is watching TV and Gerard is waiting by the door to his room down the hall. His eyes widen when he sees my angry state. I snap my fingers at his room and he gets the message and goes inside. I follow him and command him to sit to which he obeys, not keen to get on my bad side.

I still don't properly know how to act around him. He seems to have gotten over the burning incident - it was a couple of weeks ago now and almost completely healed. Yeah, it was a dramatic, unnecessary and hateful thing to do but hey, I'll admit that I'm scared to lose him. And that thought really scares me.

When I'm mad, I tend to do one of two things - beat or kiss the crap out of Gerard Way. He doesn't seem to be in the mood for either, but that's too bad because soon I'm acting on my anger.

My lips collide with his but he makes a noise of complaint and shoves me off.

"You know, you're lucky I haven't done much else besides take off your shirt!" I remind him bitterly, grabbing the neckline of his t-shirt to prove a point. "A lot of people wouldn't be so lucky."

I wouldn't actually take things too far. I do have some restraint. Still, I don't think he knows that and I'm eager to prove a point that I've got - and always will have - the upper-hand. If he would just listen to me and stop resisting, it wouldn't have to be so hard.

"Frank, you're scaring me," he whispers.

"Too bad I didn't ask for your input nor do I care for it, huh? And there's no 'us', Gee, there's only me and you, my kidnap victim."

He has the audacity to look hurt as if I should feel bad for him. "But you like me, right? Or you'd have killed me already."

"I don't—" But I cut myself off from arguing with him because I realise he's right. Beyond all my expectations, it's true - I actually like him. This makes me fall silent and my anger slowly fades. This is the worst thing I've ever done (well, apart from the obvious): manipulating not just an innocent boy but also myself into caring in the wrong way. What am I doing? How did I let myself completely change my personality and affections for one messed up kid?

"I like you too," Gerard admits quietly.

I shake my head. "You can't like me, Gee. I've beaten you, burned you, threatened to kill you more times than I can count and so as I told you, it's Stockholm Syndrome. Sure, it's rare but it's happened with other kidnapping cases; I'm the only one you can latch onto besides Ray, I guess, and you can't take advantage of that. You can't like me."

To my surprise, he shuts me up by kissing me, opening his mouth and clutching my shoulders, pulling me onto the bed. It doesn't take me long to get over my shock and I roll over on top of him, kissing back and wrapping my hands around his thighs, yanking him closer.

"I don't care," he huffs. My teeth grazing his collarbone interrupt his thoughts before he tries to reiterate his point. "Frank, I... A small part of me knows it's wrong and my feelings can't be real but I just don't care."

"I want you to care, baby," I whisper. I catch my teeth on his earlobe now.

He shivers at the nickname. "I want to be with you."

"As you wish, Gee," I smirk and plant light kisses down his jaw.

He freezes and his dilated pupils loll forward to focus on me but I can tell he's distracted by my lips. "Huh?"

I don't know what makes me say this - perhaps it's the hormones making my brain fuzzy, turning to mush. Perhaps it's my last shred of hope, clinging to the fact that the dark side of him wants to be with me, and the purer side of me would do anything to let that come true. Regardless, the words come pouring out of my mouth before I know what's hit me.

"You're mine regardless of the situation so I suppose it's only fair that I'm yours."

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Alicia's moved on to questioning Mikey about Pete. There is a minuscule, reasonable part of him that is aware it would be best for all parties to let the detective agency and the cops in on the truth - that Mikey is dating Pete and that he's scared. He's scared that he hardly knows the older boy or what he might be capable of. He's scared of himself, his recent indulging of unapproved substances (mainly hard liquor) and the state his mental health is in. The danger he's putting himself in, and for what reason?

"This is what I don't get," Alicia is droning on as Mikey's attention fixates on some dust particles floating through the air, "is why you've picked things up with Pete Wentz of all people."

He honestly can't say. There's just something alluring about Pete, something comforting in the knowledge that being with him makes everything else turn to... dust. He stays silent.

"You know he has a DUI charge, right?" Alicia snaps and that piece of information catches his attention.

"Of course," he lies, "Pete tells me everything. We're just so close, you know; we would trust each other with our lives."

Something doesn't sit right with Alicia. They've been sat in the same detached room all afternoon, adjacent seating so they can stare into each other's suspicious eyes like two dogs in a cage fight about to be unleashed. She, trying to break through to him and help him understand she's not the enemy - he, defensive and sulky and impossibly loyal to the horrors he calls his friends.

"So you know all about that night," Alicia guesses ruthlessly, taking a shot in the dark because although she's read up on Pete's file and has questioned him plenty of times herself, this is a grey area. "About what drove him to it."

Mikey chews on his lip and pushes his glasses back up his nose. He's stopped wearing contacts recently out of laziness. "A bottle of booze and a loose steering wheel?"

"To put in bluntly, yes. I'm talking psychologically."

"How am I supposed to know every impulse going through his head?" Mikey scoffs.

"You said it yourself, you're close to him." Alicia shakes her head. "Anyone who knows Pete Wentz knows about his adoring family." Before Mikey can speak up in false defence, she continues on without mercy. "They sure do have a big house, don't they? A nice extensive wine cellar if your haggard appearance is anything to go by, but we won't comment on that. His parents do well for themselves but the constant business trips come at a personal cost: mommy and daddy don't have too much time to bond with their spoilt rotten son."

Mikey always assumed the reason he hasn't met Pete's parents was because they're homophobic. Maybe that's just part of the problem. "That's a mouthful to speculate."

"They thought they could buy his love with a shiny toy: a brand-spanking-new Mercedes. I'm told he totalled it after a week. I guess the wine cellar was too much of an open bar and as for the open roads," she sighs, "that disaster was too much of a temptation. You'd think something that made it to the local press in a matter of minutes would be enough to warrant a couple months worth of grounding in any home, but no. The Wentz household couldn't care less about their son's antics, and I don't imagine the rotten apple falls too far from the family tree."

Mikey swallows in unease. "You think Pete doesn't care about me."

"You're the new Mercedes," she concludes, "and to him, you never looked better."

"I'm not a vehicle you can trash at the side of the road!" Mikey slams his hands down on the table. "Hasn't it occurred to you that our relationship isn't about treasuring our existences and embracing each other with open arms? We have problems - I have a lot of them and sure, maybe Pete is adding to that list, but I can assure you with confidence that he's never going to be number one."

"'Relationship'." The Detective smiles gently and presses the record button on her device once again, finally feeling like she's getting into the topics that matter. "So you're a couple."

Mikey pales. "No. That's not what I—"

"I almost have enough to arrest him on the spot. This entire conspiracy you've gotten tangled up in is going to end up getting you hurt, Mikey. Don't think I don't smell the alcohol on your breath and think of my own conspiracies."

That he's been persuaded into drunken sex with Pete, which is beyond illegal.

He stands up then, desperately shaking his head as panic bubbles in his chest. "I can't do this." He looks at her, for the second time in his life about to beg to keep someone else safe. "Alicia, you don't understand. Pete's all I have."

Alicia's expression softens at the sound of her first name. She isn't used to hearing anything beyond Detective Simmons; granted, she usually doesn't become so involved in one person's life. "I said almost. The rest is up to you."

Mikey refuses to give her the satisfaction of giving in. "I want to leave, now."

She lets him. He's escorted out by the usual entourage of security guards and cops, once again with his lips sealed shut. He's really starting to get himself into a sticky situation and there looks to be no feasible way out - he doesn't want anything to happen to Pete, or for his parents to find out about any of this as much as Detective Simmons promised it would be kept confidential. He just wants to see his brother again.

He's just a kid and he's thinking of the one way he could solve this entire mess: by ceasing to participate in anything at all.

Gerard shouldn't have stepped in for him. He was meant to die that day. Everything would be a lot simpler if he had.

"Don't think like that," he tells himself ashamedly as he gets on the bus heading for Pete's house. He knows he's always welcome there whether Pete is in or not, because it's not like his parents will catch him raiding their alcohol for the hundredth time. That's the only immediate method of soothing his pain these days, and he will always take it if given the chance.

And that's how he finds himself spending another evening alone (well, with the exception of Joe). He feeds the fish and drinks himself into a pleasant buzz.

"Again?" Pete's voice registers in the back of his mind as the front door swings open, revealing the older boy clad in a black leather jacket and gym bag, his hair wet from the spitting rain. He gestures to the already half-empty bottle of white rum on the kitchen counter. "You know that's mine, Mikes."

Mikey slides the bottle back and forth between his two hands, debating taking another drink just to get on Pete's nerves but he decides against it. It's been a delicate subject between them lately, his self-destruction. But anyone should understand that alcohol numbs his feelings. Pete has enough money and a good enough fake ID to buy more.

"If my parents get home early and see that—" Pete goes on.

"I know," Mikey says. But they won't. He stumbles to his feet to twist the lid back on and put it at the back of the alcohol cupboard, which has become despairingly meagre lately. That's probably his doing - not that he feels guilty about it. He's too busy feeling like he wants to die to care about such trivial matters. One thing he does care about, though: "I think your parents would be angrier if they knew about us."

Pete studies him with his arms folded. "Yeah, they would. I'm... a lot older than you."

Mikey's parents simply wouldn't let it happen. It isn't difficult to hide their relationship from either pairs, knowing the consequences if it got out. Furthermore, it isn't difficult to hide it because Pete's parents are never here. He doesn't know why it bothers him. Maybe he just wants a little more love to go around in the world.

"And you're gay." Mikey blinks away sleep from his eyes and saunters over to his boyfriend. Sometimes you don't realise you're drunk until you start moving and thinking too hard. "They still don't know, do they?"

"My parents are never home."

"Like they weren't home the night you took your new Mercedes for a drunken spin?" Mikey mutters much to Pete's shock. They level their eyes, tensed up and ready to bolt.

"They don't care about anything," Pete deadpans, not bothering to ask how Mikey knows about that incident, knowing he's been with Alicia today.

"So it wouldn't bother them if they knew I came over," Mikey teases, "or do you like treating me like an overnight hooker?"

Somehow he doesn't see the slap coming. After years of putting up with crap like this, and maybe even inflicting worse verbal insults on others, and through all the drama, he didn't expect it to come from Pete. It's not that hard - it doesn't send him to the ground. It's just surprising, and it hurts. The most messed up part is that he had told himself being hurt isn't his fault - being struck is never his fault and it's not right, and he should stand up for himself - but this is different. All he knows is defeat, acceptance; he had it coming.

Pete cuts into his moment of blame. "I'm sorry. I—" He runs a hand down his face in exasperation more than anything. "I shouldn't have done that."

Mikey is dizzy, more from the rum than anything else. "I'm gonna lie down." He makes his way to the sofa.

Pete follows like an unsure puppy. "Mikey, I am sorry. But you have to see you're dealing with this horribly. I don't know what else to do but try to help you."

His manipulative streak is showing again. Mikey lays his head down on a soft cushion, shutting his eyes for a brief second as he waits for the dizziness to pass. Is this 'help'? Is it working? Maybe Alicia is right - he's sleeping with the enemy, stuck on the wrong team. Then again, were he in Pete's position, he wouldn't have a clue what to do either. He probably would've run for the hills by now so he figures it's something that the guy has stuck around and put up with him for as long as he has.

Pete grows nervous at the silence. "How much have you had to drink?"

"It's my fault," Mikey realises all of a sudden. He sits up, the dizziness making way for building panic. The stinging in his cheek drops to his stomach where it simmers and turns to wasps eating away at his insides. "Oh my God. Oh, Christ. It's me. Pete, it was me. This entire thing - you and Frank and those kids, my - and - and oh my God, Gerard - it was my fault."

"Haven't we been through this before?" Pete rushes forward to catch the panicking sophomore in his arms before he can roll off the couch.

"Yeah," gasps Mikey, "yeah but it never - it never hit me really until now. How if I had just died, Gerard would never have—"

"Gerard is gone," Pete tells him with no remorse, "you're never getting him back." Mikey fights tears but Pete picks up the pieces and cups his boyfriend's face, forcing their heartbroken eyes to meet. "Listen to me, Mikey Way. I'm glad you're alive, I'm glad I met you, and I'm glad we're together. And I'm so, so sorry for hurting you because I never want to see you hurt." He hesitates before making his next move. "And I have to tell you something."

"What?" Mikey croaks.

"I was involved," he whispers, "I knew about it. The whole time, I knew."

Mikey knows he should fight it, that this isn't right and Pete can't truly ever care about him the way he craves, especially if was in on the plan to let high-school kids die, including himself. Pete was friends with a murderous psycho. Pete could've stopped it, stopped everything from happening the way it did but there's nothing they can do about it now.

And Mikey is so desperately alone and vulnerable and young that he'll take what he can get just to escape the agony of survivor's guilt. He kisses Pete with longing, with need and hunger and a promise that it's the two of them against the world now. And like the alcohol, he lets the physical touch melt away everything else that should have mattered in ignorant bliss.


	13. Drowning Lessons

_C h a p t e r | T h i r t e e n_

**In The Past**

"Mommy, Mikey stole my toy!" A four-year-old Gerard comes running down the back yard to the door of his childhood home, straight into the kitchen to tug at his mother's summer dress. "Mommy!"

"Get over it, Gerard. Sometimes people take things that aren't theirs and there's nothing you can do about it. Besides, you always take his so I suppose it's fair." His mom rolls her eyes. She's always been strict and even cruel at times, giving her sons the minimal supplies they require - food, toys, beds, and other things alike - but love is more scarce. Gerard believes it's normal.

"'S not fair!" Gerard whines. "You like him more than me!"

"Gerard," she sighs, "go back outside and make up with your brother or else I'll get your father to sort it out."

That's the one thing Gerard today wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy. At this age, however, he doesn't understand the severity of her statement so much, so he resorts to pouting with crossed arms and stomping his feet. "It's Mikey's fault!"

A pudgy little Mikey appears at the doorway, wide eyes set on his older brother. "Ge-rd." From behind his back, he reveals the teddy he nicked from Gerard, holding it out as a peace offering.

"Finally," Gerard scowls and snatches the toy back, "I'm gonna tell daddy on you."

"Who's going to tell dad what?" Their father has just come back from work and is hanging his jacket up on a hook at the front of the house. His booming voice can be heard from the back yard.

"It's nothing, dear." Gerard's mom waves it off dismissively as her husband saunters into the kitchen. "They're just arguing again."

"No, daddy, it was Mikey's fault!" Gerard protests.

"Michael is too young to understand what he did was wrong." His father kicks his boots off underneath the kitchen table then bends down to Gerard's level. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Gerard looks sheepishly at his feet. "Mikey—"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Gerard." He raises his voice and forces Gerard's chin up so they're eye to eye. Gerard's lips tremble. His mother says nothing, continuing with washing the dishes in the sink nonchalantly.

"Sorry," Gerard mumbles, "Mikey took my toy and I got mad at him. I told mommy and she said it's fair but it's not fair at all!"

"So you thought throwing a damn tantrum with your mother was the solution?"

"That's a bad word," Gerard gasps quietly. In the background, Mikey edges away from the scene, crawling since he hasn't quite learned to walk all the time yet.

Gerard's father's hand slaps across his cheek, sending his son stumbling backwards, one open palm clutched to his sore face. Gerard sniffles a little, standing awkwardly with his feet turned in and eyes cast downward. Mikey's horrified gaze settles on his brother.

Their dad stands back up, loosening his tie. "I've had a long day," he informs their mom with a frustrated sigh, "I trust dinner won't be too long."

"Fifteen minutes," she utters, scared after seeing her husband actually lay hands on her son for the first time. Usually these things don't end up well - she's surprised she wasn't first. It definitely won't be the last time something like this happens. He's only four, and she did nothing to protect him.

"Good." He turns once again to Gerard with narrowed eyes. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Y-yes." Gerard nods his head quickly. His cheek stings, and he sure isn't planning on annoying his dad anymore if that's all he's going to get out of it.

"Don't stutter, boy," his dad warns him, wagging a disapproving finger.

Gerard knows he won't be able to agree vocally without stammering again so he simply nods with watery eyes. His dad leaves to put his things upstairs.

Mikey clumsily drags Gerard out of the kitchen and back into the garden. Gerard holds his toy with one shaking hand and his brother's wrist with the other.

"'M sorry, Ge-rd," Mikey whispers.

"It's okay. Thank you for giving back my toy." He tries to smile at his brother but he knows it doesn't reach his eyes. "I will always protect you, okay? Mommy and daddy are mean but I'll never let them hurt you, I promise."

"What 'bout when you're not here?" Mikey worries.

"Well, I'll have to always be here," Gerard declares, "I'm not going anywhere anyway, apart from school. Then when you go to school, I can protect you from mean people there too!"

Little does he know that thirteen years later, he'll be putting himself in front of a loaded shotgun to save his brother's life.

"Love you," mumbles Mikey, burying his face in Gerard's shirt as he envelopes the older one in a hug.

"You too, Mikes."

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

"I think I want to stay at a friend's house for a while." Mikey shuffles from foot to foot, trembling slightly as he awaits a response from his parents at his request to move in with Pete. Since the shooting, his parents have been more distant than they ever have before so this is the first time he's spoken to them in weeks.

Everyone is numb since everything that happened with the school and Gerard. His family haven't taken it well - his dad even had a little bit of his heart broken when Gerard left, in his own weird way. Despite their abnormally rage-filled upbringing, their dad would never want either of his sons to be involved with something like this.

Which is why his voice is void of emotion when he answers, uncomfortably numb. "Fine."

Mikey's mother has the decency to look a tad more concerned, having never really heard of this new friend. She brushes her hair back from her face in a jittery motion. "Mikey, during times like these it's better to stick together as a family."

"A quarter of our family is gone," Mikey tells her, "and we've each been ripped apart by that. I need some time away, to heal. It'll only be until school ends and maybe over summer." He neglects to mention the fact he doesn't know if he can be persuaded to return to school after summer. He doesn't know if he'll make it that far in life, if he plans to get to that point.

Mikey expects his dad to butt in at any moment and demand to know who the person he'll be living with for months is, but instead he simply shakes his head in dismissal, desperate for the conversation to be over. "Get out of my sight, boy. Come back when you learn to face your problems like a man."

Mikey wants to scream at him that he's the worst for dealing with his issues in horrendously unhealthy ways - for taking out his anger on Gerard when it suited him. He never got around to hitting Mikey since Gerard was always around to protect his little brother like he promised, but now everything has changed and Mikey's scared of what might happen should he stay here.

He doesn't know if he'll be much better off at Pete's but it's worth a shot. His bags are already packed and lying at the door, knowing he would be leaving whether his parents agreed or not. It makes it admittedly easier hearing his dad doesn't want him around and his mom doesn't have the balls to stand up for herself or give two craps about his well-being. It should be better, not having to come home to the deathly quiet, closed-off suburban home he despises so much now that he knows Gerard isn't coming back to it.

Pete was the one who suggested this line of action, wanting to keep the younger boy close by his side. They might have to do some sneaking around when his parents do actually show up and question the extra toothbrush in the bathroom but Pete has a king-sized bed more than big enough for the two of them. And Mikey couldn't say no to that.

And he'll get to be away from the bad memories this way, in a space where he'll have his own air and won't be worried about his neck being breathed down. He can dedicate more time to looking after Joe (it's the insignificant trivial things that keep him sane).

When he arrives at Pete's front door with his luggage, the first thing he does when his boyfriend opens the door is hug him. Instantly arms are enveloping around him in response. "It went as I expected," Mikey mumbles.

"They didn't mind?" Pete presumes.

"I thought I would make him angry," Mikey whispers, "my dad. But he didn't mind at all."

Pete frowns, not understanding what could be so frightening about getting on the wrong side of your father. He pulls away and helps Mikey with his belongings, ushering the worn-out kid into his spacious home. He smiles only to himself when he shuts (and locks) the door.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

I lie on the bed with Gerard's head in my lap, running my hands through his hair to his content. I don't know if he's sleeping because his eyes are closed but there's a smile on his face.

How did we get here? I don't think I'll ever know. Is he aware of the monumental mistake he's making by getting this close to me, a psychopathic, abusive murderer? I did a little research on Stockholm Syndrome and the results were disturbing.

The term is recognised mostly in correlation with Patty Hearst, who at only nineteen years old, got in deep with the revolutionary militants who kidnapped her in 1974. When she aided them in a robbery, she was caught and imprisoned. Of course, it was first coined with a separate case in Sweden. It goes in stages: first, the captive person is terrified and thinks semi-rationally that they're going to be killed. Second comes the stage similar to infantilisation - Gerard couldn't partake in any activity without my permission, when small acts of mercy were seen as another chance at life. In his subconscious, he thinks I'm the one who lets him live, not the one who took his life away from him.

I'm his God. It's a sick and twisted thing to believe but I literally control him, instruct and boss him around, toy with his emotions and actions. I don't know how to stop doing that because no matter what happens, I will always be scared Gerard will try to run away and abandon me. I guess that's my own abandonment issues at the mic.

I shamelessly admire his features, his cute little nose, his brows pulled together over his eyes which are framed with long, dark lashes. He has a round, slightly chubby face and small teeth that seem beautifully out of proportion, and not even a hint of stubble which adds for a hint of a more feminine look. Overall, I think he really is adorable, and if I could stay in this position forever, I wouldn't complain.

I sigh and look away when I realise how messed up this situation is. I kidnapped and abused him; I can't catch feelings for him. I wish we had met before all of this, before I became a murderer, then maybe he could've changed my mind or stopped the bullying. He and Mikey could've put an end to the needless beatings. He could've saved me and I'd have let him, maybe.

I'm starting to believe in karma and the ironic world of fate.

"Frank?" He stirs and his eyes flutter open. "What time is it?"

"Who cares?"

I don't know where that came from; it's a simple question and I don't have to be rude about it.

"Is something wrong?" He frowns, noticing my indifference.

I shake my head. "Sorry, I just—" I bite my tongue to shut up. I shouldn't be apologising to him under any circumstances. I should be playing God like I always got a secret satisfaction of doing anyway. "I'm taking a shower." I reluctantly slide off the bed and toward the bathroom, leaving him still half-asleep and confused.

Ray catches my wrist down the hall before I go in. "So how's it going? Have you thought about what I said?"

"Nice to see and finally speak to you, Ray." I roll my eyes and retract my wrist from his iron grip. We've been a little distant later - all the pressure is affecting us in different ways and he's choosing to ignore me. I was his best friend and I guess I changed somehow after shooting up our school.

"What are you doing to that poor kid, Frank?" He continues to ignore my remarks. "If you're going to keep living in my house—"

"Like you pay rent here." And there I go, rolling my eyes again. I can't help it, the sarcasm is in my blood.

"—I need an answer," he finishes.

"He's not a kid, Ray, he's our age." I avoid the question because I don't have an answer.

Ray sees right through me and shakes his frizzy hair. He's good at reading people. Thankfully, he doesn't push me further and lets me go.

In the shower, I scrub at my skin until it's bright pink, slightly disgusted with myself. I've touched Gerard - he didn't want me to, even if he liked it - and it makes me sick. All these emotions are alien to me, because I've never been in a relationship with anyone, and... is that what this is? I have claimed him as mine, and promised myself as his, so are we together?

I don't think in any universe you could safely call this a 'relationship'. That's a hard smack in the face to modern civilisation. He's more of my butler than he would be my boyfriend.

I finish bathing and wrap a towel around my waist when I step out, clutching the sink to hold in my sudden anger. Goddamn it, I wish I got on some meds for my anger issues and mood swings before I drove all the way out here to the middle of nowhere. I guess even if there was a pharmacy nearby with any pills that could help me, I probably shouldn't be leaving the house if I can help it. I shove on some clothes already lying on the floor and brush my hair with my fingers. It badly needs cut.

The noise of the front door opening grabs my attention and I step out into the hall to see the back of a familiar black haired boy making for the outside world. Before I can react, the door slams shut and then it dawns on me.

He's trying to run.

How was I so careless to leave the door unlocked? I hate myself a lot more than I hate him for allowing this to happen. Why can't I have two brain cells enough to properly lock up my hostage? He clearly needs it.

I go after him with a knife in my jean pocket, almost ripping the door off its hinges and sprinting after Gerard. He holds a set of keys in his hands and is heading to my car. He throws himself inside and turns the ignition but he doesn't get far before I open his door.

There's a bit of déjà vu here.

He screams in fright when I yank him out of the car and push him against it, flattening my body against his and pressing the knife to his throat. His eyes are wide and brimming with tears.

"You never learn, do you?" I snarl. "Everything was going perfectly then you had to ruin it, but you're never going to pull a stunt like this again after I'm done with you."

"You can't blame me," he chokes but there's conflict in his eyes, like he can't really believe he's done this and he's cursing himself for trying again. He knows he'll fail every time. The conflict tells me a part of him knows he should have just stayed put.

"I can blame you," I laugh cynically, "because if I don't, I can only blame myself for trusting you. For letting myself believe that for one second, we had something between us - something worth staying together for."

"We do," he quickly tells me, fully believing it.

He would tell me anything to appease me right now. Wouldn't anyone make up lies to save their own skins? "I'm so tired of this, Gerard!" I yell and press the knife further into his neck, drawing out a few beads of dark blood. "Of looking over my shoulder for everything! You didn't have to add to that problem!"

"Frank, please—" He starts to whimper but I ignore him and drag him back to the house, brushing off the fact that my car is still on. He fights to get away from me but I'm stronger and he hasn't got a chance. I don't think he really wants to get away from me anyway. He doesn't want to leave, not really. I'm all he has - I'm his God, I said it. Or maybe that's called denial.

In my blind fury, I decide how I'm going to punish him. I throw him inside the bathroom and turn on the cold water tap in the tub, locking the door behind us.

He tries to get up but I slap him so hard he falls back and holds a hand to his cheek, cowering and sobbing. He huffs out a laugh in between his cries like this is a recurring game he's always losing, and he has no cards left to play.

"You thought your little ploy of tricking me into liking you was going to work? I'll give you this, Gerard, you had me fooled." I mock with venom in my voice. "Maybe I should've done this a long time ago, to prove that you're nothing without me, that you belong to me, and now you'll never leave."

Here's the worse side of me coming out: the one that possesses and hurts and drags down to hell. The darkest part of me that simply wants to own Gerard like a caged animal, a little brat that gets fed scraps of raw meat through the bars of a prison. This is what it's supposed to be like for him: a prison, a personal hell he'll never be able to escape.

When I reckon there's enough cold water in the bathtub, I pick him up by his hair and he falls in. I forcefully push his head under the water and he thrashes around, muffled screaming escaping his lips which are quickly turning blue.

I don't know much about waterboarding besides the snippets in a news article I read in relation to Stockholm Syndrome. I can blame this on some scientist online who said kidnappers might like to physically punish their victims to keep them in line. That's all I want. Secretly, I do enjoy it.

I hold him in the water for a while longer until his squirming becomes truly desperate then I pull him to the surface. He takes one gasp for air then I push him back under. His hands claw at my arms and his feet try and fail to kick me off. Both of us are soaking at this point.

I pull him up once again and taunt him, "Have you learned your lesson, Gee?"

"You're sick!" He croaks, his throat too abused to scream, and I see red as I hold him under again, for longer this time.

I want to drown the rage out of him and take it for myself. He doesn't have the right or the authority to be as livid as I am in the current moment. He's the one who betrayed me and tried to leave me.

His thrashing gets weaker and I know he's on the verge of passing out so I let him breathe as he returns to full consciousness. He's crying harder than he ever has before, no more anger, and choking out, "Stop, please! I'm sorry, I'll be good!"

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I promise! I'm sorry, please, no more!" He's practically convulsing in the freezing water and his eyes are shut. Tears stream down his pale face.

I pull him out of the tub and let the water drain, deciding I've reached his limit, or perhaps already passed it. Sobs wrack his body and he clutches his knees to his chest on the floor, hiding his face in his hands and breathing raggedly.

I wonder if something like this exact situation has happened to him before because the haunting look in his eyes tells me that this isn't new to him. That he's used to being used as a punching bag. Maybe it was his so-called perfect home life that I never considered before.

No. I'd feel a lot worse if I thought like that. I straighten myself out, wringing out the water from my shirt.

"We're not going to have another incident again, yeah?"

"No," he cries hysterically, "I promise, I'm done. Frank, I - I'm done, please let it be done."

I shake my head in disbelief. Can't he see he was the one who caused this? I consistently tell him I don't want to hurt him unless I have to but he insists on provoking me. "It's done if you're ready to behave."

"Please," he sniffles, "don't hurt me."

I toss a couple of towels at him and leave him to recover, unknowing to the fact that Ray heard the whole thing.


	14. The Chips In Bob Bryar’s Headstone

_C h a p t e r | F o u r t e e n_

**Present Day - Mikey**

It's the day of Pete's high-school graduation, the day before summer vacation kicks off. The air is sticky with heat, thick with anticipation of all the limitless opportunity that comes with the sun and the knowledge that in time you can be anything or anyone you desire. Mikey is aimlessly jealous of that freedom.

Patrick's come to pick him up for school since Pete had to go in early to rehearse for the ceremony or whatever lame excuse it was. But Mikey's in a monumental panic after realising there's no fish food left for Joe.

"What if I kill him?" He's raking through the cupboards, tossing half-empty boxes of cereal and farmer's market baking supplies onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. "I have one responsibility in my life and I'm about to mess it up like I always do."

"Hey, it'll be fine," Patrick reassures him with a friendly smile, "you're talking to the guy who dumped soda in the tank and thought he killed the poor dude with a sugar overload. You're much better at this than I am."

"If I kill this fish, Pete is gonna kill me." Mikey stops in his tracks and looks mournfully at Patrick. "He knows Joe is the only thing keeping me together at this point, and it's probably the only thing keeping Pete together too—"

"That's ridiculous," Patrick laughs, "you two are keeping each other sane. You're like two mismatched jigsaw puzzle pieces that have somehow made yourselves fit. A goldfish is just something you can project onto, Miko."

"Miko?" Mikey echoes in confusion.

"Sorry, just a nickname. I think it's Japanese, though they tend to use it for women." He scratches his head sheepishly. "I heard you aren't keen on 'Mikes'."

"It's what Gerard called me," answers Mikey immediately before going back to searching through the cupboards. Eventually he has to give up, throwing up his arms in defeat. "There's none. I can't believe I didn't notice we ran out." He gives Patrick his best attempt at puppy-dog eyes. "Could we stop by the pet store on the way to school? I don't think I can handle this meltdown for any longer."

Patrick shakes his car keys with an impending grin. "If the traffic allows. Be quick about it."

The traffic does allow. They take the detour to the pet store and the shopkeeper points them in the direction of what they're searching for. Patrick gets distracted at the squeaky dog toys as Mikey rakes through his options. They must look a sight - Patrick with his signature fedora tipped on his head and glasses like Mikey's attempting to hide the bags under his eyes, and Mikey in Pete's hoodie labelled by some obscure metal band he's never heard of with the soles flapping off of his Converse.

"Are you sad you're not up there with Pete today?" Mikey asks nonchalantly. "With your cap and gown and..."

"It was my decision to drop out." Patrick brushes it off like it's nothing to him. "After the shooting - and this is real cliché - I realised how short and unfair life is. I was sure glad I wasn't grouped in with your friends and killed, but I didn't want to spend the next months of my life in that prison just to shake the principal's sweaty hand in exchange for a piece of laminated paper I'd probably lose soon enough. I mean, who cares about a high-school diploma?"

When he sees Mikey's forlorn expression, he stops playing with the dog toys, trying not to let his short attention span ruin the conversation. "Sorry, that was insensitive." Patrick often forgets that Mikey was indeed friends with the kids who got shot, and that his brother isn't here anymore. He can't imagine how difficult it must be.

"It's okay," says Mikey, "so what are you gonna do now?"

"I have no idea. You?" He deflects the subject. "Granted you've got two more years to think about it."

Mikey doesn't see a future that far ahead, or even one past junior year. Still, he doesn't want to tell Pete's best friend that and have him think he's a crazy person. "I'd probably go into the music industry."

"Oh yeah? I thought about that." He picks out a set of plastic decor for the fish tank, flipping it over to check the price before wincing and putting it back. "Pete said you play bass."

"I... did." Mikey trails off, not sure how to justify it. "It's just a pipe dream for me anyway."

"Hey, nothing's a pipe dream if you want it hard enough, Miko. I mean, it's what Pete's set on doing too. I dunno if he mentioned we're in a band together and it looks like it could go places and I don't want to give up on that dream, ever."

"Pete's in a band with you?" Mikey frowns. Every day he realises he knows so little about his boyfriend besides the obvious big secret that he was an accessory to murder.

"Yeah, he's the bassist," Patrick answers. Mikey catches jealousy rising in his chest at the fact Pete shares his hobbies with Patrick instead of him, and that they're both bass players but they never talk about. Well, Mikey's just as guilty for never bringing his passions up in conversation. He's too down in the dirt to really care about that stuff right now.

"You should pick it back up," continues Patrick with a beam, "and if you're half as good as Pete, you can take his place. Honestly, he's a pain in the—"

"Found it," utters Mikey when he's confronted with their usual brand of fish food.

Patrick nods in approval then says, "I'll pay for it - as a 'thanks for taking care of Joe when I couldn't' gift." Mikey is happy with that and smiles to show his appreciation.

They're loading the food into the back of the car when Mikey checks his phone and immediately blanches when faced with the time. "Oh my God, we're so late!"

"Crap, really? Okay, get in." Patrick turns on the engine and steps on the gas as Mikey struggles to put his seatbelt on. It's just high-school graduation and it shouldn't matter as much as it feels, but Mikey never wants to let Pete down, and it makes him sick to his stomach at the thought of disappointing him.

It's about ten minutes to get back into town to pull into the school parking lot and Mikey's flinging open the door and clambering out before Patrick's even rolled his window up. The entire Senior student body is leaving through various exits in the building, each clad in a black cap and gown carrying their diplomas. Pete is leaning against a back wall looking similar but sneakily trying to light a cigarette. Mikey rushes over to him.

"I'm so sorry," he pants, "I totally lost track of—"

"It's too late now." Pete rolls his eyes with indifference, sparking his lighter. Mikey doesn't allow the snide comment to hurt him and waits patiently for Patrick to join them and break the tension.

"Congrats, man!" He cheers when he catches up. "So now you're free to do... whatever the hell your plan was?"

Pete chuckles. "You know what." Mikey's heart deflates because they're referring to the band and taking a leap of faith to make it big (and probably leave him behind in the dirt). He can't believe he didn't know about this until today. Then again, does Patrick even know they're dating or is Pete too ashamed to flaunt his kid boyfriend in front of the people he's really trying to impress?

Pete sucks on his cigarette and nods to Mikey. "The principal was looking for you. Something about paying tribute to Rookie since he was supposed to be going to some Ivy League school."

Right. Mikey's friends are dead but would have otherwise been graduating today, including Alan who was meant to be attending Dartmouth. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "I already spoke to the guy not too long ago. I think I'll leave that train-wreck for after summer."

"Your funeral," Pete comments inappropriately, "I'm not the one who has to come back here."

Patrick butts in at precisely the right moment. "I suppose this goes without saying but drinks at mine?"

Mikey accepts the offer with relief. He could always do with a stiff drink and he has nothing better to do to kill time right now. "Yeah. Hey, do you..." He scrambles to find the right phrase to not sound desperate but the word vomit comes tumbling out. "Do you think I look old enough to get a fake ID?"

Pete raises one eyebrow and elbows Patrick in the side, not wanting to outright tell his boyfriend 'no, you're not even sixteen'. Patrick clears his throat and replies, "Maybe give it a year, Miko, you've got some filling out to do."

Mikey nods in disappointment but he was expecting such an answer. It was worth a shot. He just wants to have the independence of acquiring his own alcohol and not leaning on them for scraps, and he's constantly craving that mind-numbing feeling so he won't have to think about the worst day of his life. He turns to head back to Patrick's car and doesn't see Pete glaring at Patrick or what is said next.

"Miko? What the hell was that?" Pete hisses, putting out his cigarette.

"Beats me," Patrick murmurs back, "it's a pet name that came to mind. What would you call him - 'lover'?"

"Watch it."

"What are you doing with that poor boy? He doesn't need our charity or bad influence. And he doesn't need an overprotective boyfriend who's three years his senior, which is absolutely immoral by the way."

"Like we care about what's legal around here." Pete claps Patrick on the back in a 'forget about it' kind of way and his friend sighs in defeat as they follow Mikey back to the parking lot.

They're having a fun time at Patrick's house until Pete pulls Mikey into the downstairs bathroom with a stern and solid hand. The rest of the graduating year have made it to the party and music blares from the yard, muffled by excited chatter of drunken teenagers and the buzz of a TV on somewhere in the distance. Mikey's expecting an adoring make-out session, already drunk and gleeful to oblige, but what he's not surprised at is the smack across his face.

"I had one shot at today," Pete chides him as the younger boy cups his stinging jaw, "one chance at graduating because I'm sure as hell never going to college. And you missed it to hang out with my best friend."

Mikey stays silent, mildly afraid to aggravate his boyfriend's temper. He supposes he deserves this. The alcohol barely numbs it.

"I don't want you near him," Pete instructs him and Mikey isn't sure if the request is there because Pete is jealous of someone getting close to his boyfriend, or if it's because he has a hard-on for Patrick.

And he doesn't know which possibility scares him the most.

>

**In The Past**

"Have you seen Ray?" I skip up to Pete who's sombrely eating his cafeteria lunch at an empty table. He's rolling around an apple with one finger and glaring at it with misery, probably rueing the day he was ever born.

"Didn't you hear?" He flattens the rolling motions with the palm of his hand. "It's all over the news, Frank."

"What is?"

"You know how Ray was hanging around that older sketchy guy from community college?" He slides his phone out from his pocket and brings up Twitter before handing it to me. I for one don't recall anything about a sketchy guy from community college.

"Belleville PD," I read out, "open investigation surrounding the disappearances of Bob Bryar and Ray Toro, for any information please call... Wait, who the hell is Bob Bryar?"

"There are so many rumours I don't know where to start. Apparently Ray was seeing this guy's girlfriend behind his back and it looks like he found out last night." Pete takes his phone back before I can skim through the replies. "And I got word that someone found an unmoving body hidden down an alley..."

"Unmoving? Like, dead?" I freeze in horror at the fact this could be Ray. I haven't heard from him all morning and I have a horrible feeling in my gut.

"Or just passed out from a fight. And maybe that was Bob - I mean, I heard something about blond hair." He breathes out shakily. "If Ray's... alive, he's probably skipped town after something like that. I don't even know what happened to the girl they were fighting over."

"How do you know this?" I narrow my eyes. "This is the first I've heard about any of this and Ray's my best friend."

"Okay, I won't take that to heart." Pete puts a hand over his chest, pretending to be hurt that he's not my number one. "My friends told me."

"Friends? You've only got one and he's sitting right across from you." I gesture to myself condescendingly.

"I have other friends," Pete argues, "like Patrick."

"Patrick? Patrick Stump? Since when—"

"Look, it doesn't matter. If Ray doesn't check in by the end of the day and there's no new updates..." Pete shuts his eyes as if battling an impending headache, nausea in his stomach. "I'll check out that alley myself."

"Be careful." I frown. "But it'll be Bob, though. And hopefully he'll be alive so Ray doesn't get stuck with a manslaughter charge."

"Speaking of killing people," Pete says nonchalantly and he lowers his voice so nobody can eavesdrop, "you haven't thought anymore about that list, have you?"

Right. I'm starting to wish I never told him that and he could forget all about it for fear he might grass on me. The thing is, I'm still seriously considering it and giddily developing my plan. "What list?"

"You know what list." Pete finally takes a bite out of his apple and chews slowly. "Frank, you know it's insane."

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it."

"I am worrying about it," says Pete, "but I want in on the details."

And that's when Pete becomes my number one for a while.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

I went too far with Gerard.

He refuses to speak to me, probably in terror that I'll hurt him again, and I don't blame him. As frustrating as it is, I can't allow myself to get mad at him because I've already done a cruel thing and making it worse won't do us any favours. I don't miss the way Gerard flinches when I run a tap to get myself a drink, or when I turn the shower on, and it makes my stomach ache.

Ray sends me glares but mostly he doesn't talk to me either. He knows how I've been treating Gerard and despite his promises to understand me, it's obvious he loathes me for it. I don't know how he thinks he can judge me after this whole mess with Bob. He still hasn't told me the entire story.

It's been over two months since we went on the run. I'm putting off Mexico for as long as I can, haunted by Ray's reminders that I have two options with my kidnap victim - let him go or kill him. Either way, it would be hard because I'd be losing him, and I'm not ready for that nor do I think I'll ever be. I could use some advice from someone other than my recluse best friend.

I pass Gerard's room one day and he's singing something I don't recognise.

"This night, walk the dead in a solitary style and crash the cemetery gates in the dress your husband hates..."

I open his door and he immediately stops, looking up at me from his bed with frightened eyes. I sigh and lean against the wall, not making a move to get closer to him in case he freaks out.

I don't know what I'm doing in here, and my throat feels dry when I talk. I look at my feet and put my hands behind my back. "Gee, we should talk."

"I have nothing to say to you." He visibly gulps.

I play with my fingers obliviously. "I have something to say to you." I'm sorry.

There's a knock at the front door and Ray goes to answer it. Gerard and I watch from his bedroom door in case the visitor recognises us. Ray opens the door to reveal a tall, strawberry-blond man in his early twenties with a lip piercing and small beard.

There's something weirdly familiar about him. I hold back, certain he'll recognise me from the news like anybody would, ready to strike if I have to.

Ray gasps and stumbles back, clearly recognising the stranger. "Bob? I thought—"

"That I was dead? I thought you were too," the man replies, "but I found you."

Is this the Bob I think it is?

"I-I..." Ray stammers, then steps back further to let him in. "Come in; we need to talk."

I'm impressed how calmly he's holding the conversation. I didn't exactly take it well when I found out Ray was alive and had been the entire time I was told he was dead. I guess this is the year of coming back to life.

Gerard and I listen carefully without revealing ourselves as they settle in the living room. "Who is that?" Gerard hisses.

"It's a long story," I reply, equally quiet and intent on eavesdropping.

"After we brought each other to the brink of death, I was sure that was it for both of us... the fight was so pointless, Ray; we shouldn't have been beating one another to near-death over a girl! I'm so sorry for what happened." Bob's voice is low and remorseful. "And I'm sorry that you were blamed for my supposed 'death' after I disappeared, and you had to come all the way out here... God, I really did think you were dead, though. That's what they're all saying." I hear him chuckle uneasily.

"I'm sorry too," Ray admits, "I thought I killed you, and I - I could barely live with myself. I thought about it every day, how I beat my best friend to death over some girl I didn't even love!"

Best friend? I thought that was me. Suddenly it all clicks that this must be Bob Bryar, the guy Ray was framed for murdering... well, clearly not framed, because it never happened. He's alive.

"Where have you been?" asks Ray tentatively.

"I'm not going to lie; I was relishing in the fact that everyone thought I was dead. It meant I could go anywhere, be anyone, without any real consequences. I've been travelling a lot," Bob explains, "making the most of my free time. Money's been a bit of an issue lately so I figured I'd come to the place you said I was always welcome if things went south. Even when we weren't friends, you had a plan for me and I'm so glad you did."

"You know what this means?" Ray babbles excitedly. "I can go back to the real world! Everything will be the same as it was, because we're here, both of us. We don't have to hide anymore."

"I don't know about that," Bob sighs mournfully, "even though you haven't committed murder, you'd still face charges for serious assault."

"Assault! Who cares?" I hear the loud sound of Ray gripping the man's shoulders. "We're alive. Whatever make-believe story the cops came up with is irrelevant now. This changes everything."

"It doesn't change what we did to each other," Bob points out, "and it was bad, Ray."

Ray hesitates then argues back. "But you can convince them it's all behind us now and they'll drop the charges. We can tell them the truth - that our brawling over some chick went a little too far, so we had to take a break, but now we're back and we're okay... we are okay, right?"

"Of course," Bob reassures him, "but... can't we just hide out a little longer? I've been enjoying the solitude."

"I guess." Ray sounds more than disappointed. I hear him shuffling and getting to his feet then he heads to the hall to find us listening in. He rolls his eyes and gestures for us. "It's okay, he's my friend. You can come out."

I'm reluctant but Gerard surprises us all by taking my hand and leading me to meet Bob.

His eyes widen when he sees us. "If you're who I think you are, then you're supposed to be dead."

Like I said, it's the year of coming back to life. I hope he doesn't run for the hills before I get the chance to snap his neck.

"Aren't we all?" I chuckle. "I'm Frank Iero, and this is Gerard Way."

"Bob Bryar," he introduces himself quickly, standing to shake our hands then turning to Ray again, "I hate to barge in but you're the only person I've got left, Ray. I really need a place to stay, not for long, and I'd be forever in your debt. Could you help me out until I get back on my feet and we're ready to reveal ourselves to the public?"

Ray doesn't even hesitate to agree because he's almost sickeningly selfless. "Sure, but... I kind of only have two bedrooms - I'm already sleeping on the couch."

The way this conversation's headed, Gerard and I will be getting kicked out (especially since Ray seems to hate me now), and I can't face that yet, so I decide to bring up an idea.

"He can take my bedroom. I'll sleep with Gerard." I say, and Gerard chokes on air beside me.

Ray doubtfully raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

I nudge Gerard gently in the ribs, not wishing to hurt him, but to make the point that he doesn't exactly have a choice. "Y-yeah, that'd be fine," he gets out unconvincingly.

Ray brushes it off and smiles at us all. "Great. I'll make coffee."

Bob eyes me doubtfully then casts his gaze to the rest of the living room - the cobwebs building up in the corners, the warm undertones of the hanging lights. It's a cosy place, not like the shacks he got used to on the road. It feels like he's been running away forever.

But Ray's right - this will change everything. Eventually, now that it can be proved both parties are alive and well, they'll step back out into the sun again. Sure, the public will be unnerved and the police will ask questions (and hopefully I'll be left out of it) but this nightmare is over for the two of them. I'm kind of jealous they have a chance to go back to a normal life.

A normal life. Huh. That's what I could have had if my parents hadn't been ruthlessly murdered in front of my eyes. I guess you can't always get what you want.

"I'll take it with milk, no sugar," calls Bob before his eyes land back on Gerard and I, and with a sinister look he continues, "so it looks like we both have some ghost stories to tell."


	15. I Brought You Bullets, Now Give Me Love

_C h a p t e r | F i f t e e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

"So... Bob," I say after a few minutes of silence, shifting closer to Gerard on the sofa as if I'm instinctively protecting him from this frankly untrustworthy-looking stranger, "you're not mad at Ray for nearly murdering you?"

"That would be hypocritical of me," he points out with a small smile - a peace offering after seeing how uneasy I am.

I'm vaguely irked that Ray never told me this story in its entirety himself until he went on the run. More on that later. I found out from Pete that I was probably never going to see him again and apparently it was this guy's fault. Or some girl I never met. The whole ordeal seems pretty dramatic.

"And this girl," I continue with narrowed eyes, not buying his act, "was she worth almost dying over?"

"I thought so at the time," he says softly, "but I never thought it would go as far as it did. I thought that I was in love with her but now I know I was using that statement as an excuse for my jealousy of Ray - I knew he was seeing her when I was too, and as for who was cheating on who, well, it's all speculation. That wasn't the point, though. I felt guilty about betraying my best friend so I just let it carry on in secret, knowing she was sneaking around with Ray and... Eventually Ray found out she was still seeing me and she had skipped town at that point, and we both just lost it at each other, I guess. I never saw him again until now nor have I seen his ex. Maybe she's the one that ended up dead."

My cool demeanour slips out of my grasp at the new information and I snap. "So in other words, you ruined his life. He was chased away, pronounced your killer and dead, stuck in hiding while you could do whatever you pleased, the moron lets you crash at his house, on his bed, and you're not on your knees at his feet begging for forgiveness?" At the end, I'm yelling, furious.

Bob opens his mouth to defend himself but stops when he looks at Gerard. I follow Bob's gaze to look at him, noticing his head shrunken into his shoulders, breathing shallowly.

"You're scaring him," Bob notes irritably - the first time I've seen him even a little bitter.

"What do you know?" I huff but I tentatively reach a hand out toward Gerard, only to let him pull away.

"You don't have the right to be mad at me, Frank." Bob cocks his head and keeps his eyes trained on Gerard who's sitting with a tightened jaw and vague fear hidden behind the hair brushed over his eyes. "What I got Ray and I into was a mistake, an accident. It's all in the past and I'm ready to move past it if he is, but you clearly have a lot to work on with your issues."

What the hell issues is he talking about? He doesn't know anything about me or Gerard or our relationship (if you can still call it that). This guy storms into Ray's home after God knows long of being pronounced dead and demands to turn a new leaf, and calls out my rude behaviour? I want to knock out his teeth for being so presumptuous.

"I bet you enjoy the company," Bob goes on, "maybe you took him on purpose for your own entertainment, like a spoilt kid reaching for his favourite toy."

"I'm not a toy," Gerard breathes out.

"A pet, then," Bob counters.

"Shut up," I snarl. Gerard looks like he might cry, being reminded how he got here and thinking how little he must mean to me. He's got it all wrong and I want to tell him to listen to me, only me.

"You are his pet," Bob addresses Gerard directly, "and when you get older and weaker, he'll put you down."

My heart drops when I see it on Gerard's face that he believes Bob's cruel words. But I can't blame the blond intruder; I can only blame myself for the irrevocable physical and emotional damage I've bestowed on him over the months. I keep saying I'll change and things will improve but old habits die hard, and deep down I know I'm a terrible person who will continue to hurt the people I care about.

"You're not," I tell Gerard weakly who's put his head in his hands, refusing to look at me.

"I'll leave you to sort this out, okay?" Bob, who was all but forgotten, announces and goes to the kitchen where Ray is.

"Gee—" I stop, reaching for him again since I'm longing for that physical contact but he makes a whimpering noise and recoils. I feel like a bullet is lodged in my heart like the one we were sure was lodged in his torso. "Gee, baby, I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry. You don't feel regret," he argues and it all comes pouring out without mercy. "Because I am just a plaything for you. You'll use me until you're bored then decide you've had enough and - and—"

"I don't know what to tell you," I say quickly to stop his babbling, "except that I'm trying, okay? It might not look obvious from an outsider's perspective but my brain is messed up and - and I'm not going to utilise that excuse for my own benefit, because you know what? I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of myself for not trying harder to treat you like the human being you are."

Gerard shakes his head and falls back on the sofa. "You're a murderer. You're a sociopath and you don't even hear the words coming out of your mouth right now. They're not true!"

"I may not regret killing five people but I repent ever laying a finger on you."

"How romantic," he sasses sarcastically, "I don't believe you. You get off on hurting people, Frank; it's in your nature and it's not going to change."

"I can try, though, to change. For you. I won't do it again."

"Yeah, that's what they said." He sucks in a breath with wide eyes, realising his mistake.

"Gerard." I say slowly. "Who are they?"

He shakes his head again without meeting my eyes. He's afraid to let his secrets show and I'm afraid of what I'm about to hear. Should I pressure him into opening up to me or is it too soon?

"Please," I ask of him, and get down on my knees below him on the sofa, taking his hands. Frank Iero, begging. I never in a million years pictured myself here, now, with him like this. For once, he doesn't pull away.

"Frank..." He starts.

I start to feel emotional. There's a funny sensation in my chest that I hate, like a dam bursting open to overwhelm my senses. I don't know how to cope with this except keep pleading.

"I'll tell you about my parents. I'll say whatever you want me to say." I can't stop rambling now that I've started and I don't know where it's all coming from except the deepest parts of my heart. "Not now but one day, I promise. I'll never hurt you again. If I ever touch a hair on your head, you get the shotgun and you blow a damn hole in my chest, okay? I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I'm crying.

It's something I haven't done since I watched my parents being slaughtered in front of me over a year and a half ago. The tears are hot and quick to fall from my eyes and I bury my face between his knees, not wishing him to see them. Sobs wrack my body. It hurts, realising what I've done to him, but it's worse knowing he won't forgive me for it.

As much as I hate this, like another personality has invaded my body and life lately, I welcome it too. I want to feel again. I want to remember what it's like to be frightened and vulnerable and human, because what's the point of my life if I don't have that? And what's the point of anything if Gerard is in pain?

That's when I know what this is; that's when I know that he's changed me and there's no going back.

"I-I just - I just want to - to m-make this okay, p-please let me m - make - make this okay," I cry, "tell me - tell me who hurt you and - and I'll m-make it right."

It's sick but I've blocked most of the memories of my parents out of my head, aside from small things and their murder. I couldn't take it. But I'll tell him - I have to; I promised.

I would share my most intimate secrets with him just to get the chance for him to trust me again. And I know I've ruined everything in his life - his chance for a normal existence with his friends and his brother, with school and possibly college then a career - with a future family of his own one day, his own kids. He could have had all that were it not for my actions.

Gerard is shocked to say the least. He pulls me up to sit beside him and wraps his arms around me - it's weird because he's never done this in a non-sexual situation. I press my lips to his neck and squeeze my eyes shut, curling my fingers into his hair but not pulling.

I don't expect to hear this story from him. Whatever it is, it's been bugging him for a while and he probably doesn't want to tell me anything I could use against him to mock and torture him. I would have trust issues too if it were me. Which is why I'm taken aback when he starts to talk.

He eventually says sadly, "My parents aren't good people. My mom never bothered much with Mikey and I - she was always working and turned a blind eye to her family. We didn't have much money and my bad grades added to that meant that I couldn't get a job. She was disappointed in me constantly - I could tell. My dad..." He swallows. "He hit me, and I let him because if he didn't hurt me, he'd hurt Mikey. When they found out I was gay, they kicked me out, and Mikey said he'd be moving out too. They told me they wished they never had me, that I was nothing to them, that I was better off dead. The night I left, I climbed over the railings of a bridge and contemplated giving them what they wanted, but Mikey needed me and I was too scared. All I wanted to do was draw and sing but it was never enough. I'm never enough for them."

By this point, I've stopped crying and I'm the one holding him, horrified that I've brought this up in the first place. "Oh God, Gee - I never should've asked. I can't believe they made you feel like that, that that was your life." I stroke his hair. "But you're more than enough, okay? I get that you haven't felt like it lately but... Honestly, you're perfect to me. It's the most soppy, cliché thing I could say but it's true. Your parents don't deserve you and they shouldn't have treated you as they did. I'm so sorry they hurt you, and that I hurt you too."

"Maybe I deserved it." He mumbles. "The world must hate me."

"No, baby, no. You're an incredible person, nothing like your parents, and you're so strong, Gee. You're a good brother to Mikey - he must be proud of you - but you're going to get through this not just for him but for yourself too. I believe in you. Anyone who hates you is an idiot and doesn't see that you're Gerard Way, that you're beautiful and brave and if the world hates you, you're just too good for it. You're too good to be with me but I'm selfish and refuse to let you go... and I promise I'll be whoever you want me to be from now on."

"You - you won't hurt me?"

That's when I make the pledge to listen to him, to listen to my own good instincts that trust me to do the morally right thing. I can do this. I can try harder than I have before to overcome those sick demons in my head that get off on watching people get hurt, like he said. Those villains don't control my life - I won't let them anymore. I can be good, at least for him. I can stop hurting him and protect him for as long as I'm able, and we can work this out.

"I'd rather die." I kiss the top of his head.

>

**In The Past**

I get the call at close to four in the morning, the bright light and incessant vibrations pulling me out of my dreams. I reach around in the darkness for the phone on my night stand and answer blindly. "Yeah?"

"Hey." The male voice on the other end of the line sounds out of breath and pressed for time. "I know the timing sucks but hear me out."

I check the caller ID in sleepy confusion to see my best friend's name on the screen. Very quickly, I'm fully awake. "Ray? Jesus, I've been trying to get a hold of you for days! Pete thought you got into some serious trouble and you were dead in a ditch or something."

There's a bitterly long silence before he speaks again, slower this time. "Frank, this entire thing is a big misunderstanding and I need you to believe that I'm innocent no matter what, okay?"

"What are you talking about?" I sit up in bed, switching on the lamp to my left. "Dude, your disappearance is on the news. They said you killed a guy."

"I didn't," he disagrees, "I was framed. The cops are gonna think it was intentional and I know they're chasing after me right now which is why I have to leave."

"Stop. I'll come get you, just tell me where." I'm already pulling a pair of jeans over my underwear, blinking sleep from my eyes and I hunt for my shoes next.

"Don't, Frank. Look, I got into a bad fight and I don't know if the other guy—"

"Bob," I guess.

"Right. Bob. I don't know if he's okay or alive or... I'll explain everything but you just need to know that whatever condition he's in, it was an accident. If he's dead, it was an accident."

"So you admit it." I swallow. "You killed someone."

"I don't know! I don't know, I just have to get out of here before I find out because I fear the worst. Have you seen the news lately? I haven't been able to check what's happening." He's rustling around, maybe looking for something, and I hear the quiet purr of a car engine.

"Bob's gone," I tell him, lacing up my sneakers, "presumed dead."

"Presumed dead," Ray echoes, a new edge to his tone, "damn it. We were just fighting over this girl, I... I didn't mean for it to get messy. I guess Pete will tell you what happened since he's like a hawk; he knows everything. So Bob just took off and died in a hole somewhere? Even if they can't find the body, state law says anyone over fifteen who commits a crime like this is trialled as an adult and I can't go to prison."

"Christ," I breathe out, "so this is bad bad." I hesitate to reach for my jacket as it sinks in I probably won't be able to get to him. "What's your plan?"

"I'm gonna go somewhere pretty damn far away - I'm gonna ditch this car at some point, hitchhike the rest of the way... but I'll come back, okay? Once it all blows over. I'm not gonna leave you alone in Belleville with those kids, Frank, I promise."

"This isn't the type of thing that goes away, Ray," I remind him sombrely, "especially if there's an open investigation about Bob's corpse."

"It might not be a corpse," Ray argues meekly, "maybe he just fled too. Maybe he thinks he killed me instead, that he's the murderer who's going to be sentenced."

"I wouldn't take my chances." I realise this might be the last time I ever speak to him. "I'm gonna miss you."

"I left a note under your doormat," he tells me and I frown, going to see what he's on about, "I'm going to hang up now."

"Wait," I get out, trying to stall him so we can speak for just a little longer, "how will you come back? They'll always be looking for you, it'll never be safe—"

"Just trust me, okay?" The line goes dead.

I find the sealed envelope outside my front door under the mat like he told me, and I tear it open with shaking hands. It's got an address on it in wide, messy handwriting, and scrawled underneath: 'In case you need to get away. Memorise and burn me.'

I do memorise it, commit it to my brain in case there ever is an emergency. If I go to this location, will I meet him there? Or will the cops have got to him first?

As far as I'm concerned, they do. His 'death' comes onto breaking news the following afternoon and the case is closed and the world gives up. I mourn the loss of my best friend, thinking he's gone forever. To this day, I still have so many questions.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

For the first time ever, the reason Mikey Way is hanging around a police station is because he wants to be there. He knows Detective Simmons' office hours and he expects her to walk through those revolving front doors any second now after finishing her shift. He has a flask tucked inside his jacket - a bold move considering the location but its contents have gained him enough confidence to make this decision.

Alicia steps out onto the street and Mikey instantly mirrors her footsteps. "I have just one question," he announces.

She stops in her tracks, turning to level with the boy at her side. She certainly didn't expect him to ever seek her out of his own accord but it's a welcome surprise. "Shoot."

"Did you go into this profession for the thrill of it all?"

It's vague and could be interpreted many different ways but Alicia thinks she understands. After all, it's her job to be attentive and figure out the underlying meaning of what people tell her. Mikey's been struggling to adapt to his post-traumatic life and he's seeking danger from wherever he goes - and from whoever he takes with him. He wants to connect with someone who's as adrenaline-seeking and downright crazy as he is.

"Believe me, the thrill fades over time." At this confession, Mikey deflates but she's quick to keep talking. "Did you get involved with Pete Wentz for the 'thrill of it all'?"

Mikey freezes up at the blunt inquiry, not anticipating such a straight-to-the-point conversation.

Alicia's eyes soften. The kid likes danger and there's nothing especially wrong with that if he knows where to safely channel his feelings. "Come on, you didn't come to bug me when I'm off-duty to talk about how much you'd love to go bungee-jumping."

"That would be fun," Mikey admits.

"It would be fun for you because you're the thrill seeker, not me."

"Why would I chase after danger - after all that's happened to me? After I was held at gunpoint and almost had my body blown to pieces?" Mikey asks of her in utter bewilderment (and denial).

"That would be something you take up with a therapist." Alicia turns on her heel, fearing they're getting nowhere. He's not ready to trust her completely yet and that's okay, but she isn't going to wait around clutching the edge of her seat. She needs to get home and cook dinner.

"Wait," Mikey calls when she's a good fifteen feet away from him, "okay, yeah, I'm a thrill-seeker. But sometimes I think Pete's a little worse than a bungee jump."

It's taken him guts (and a lot of booze) to come here and fess up that his relationship isn't going as swimmingly as he thought it might. He's a fool for thinking Pete truly cared about him the way he had hoped for but he forgives the guy every time he thinks of how good he really has it - he's here and he's alive and whole, mostly. It's a simple thought process and he wants to break the chain, to let someone else in on the secret that he's hurting, and maybe being with Pete isn't helping him at all.

He doesn't want his boyfriend to get in trouble but that doesn't mean he wants to keep all his feelings bottled up forever. It's too hard. Maybe in this instance, going to Alicia (the expert, as she put it) is the responsible action to take.

Alicia replies, "As much as you would hate to hear it, maybe it will do you some good to be away from him for a while."

"I can't stay away from him," Mikey mutters when he catches her up.

"You might not get a choice." At his confused expression, she puts two and two together and realises the kid is missing out on a vital piece of information. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Mikey demands.

She never wanted to be the one to break it to him but it does give her satisfaction, knowing she can actually help him by doing something good. By telling him this. "Pete is looking at jail time. Mikey, we found evidence that he knew about the shooting before it happened."

Mikey stares at the floor in disbelief, trying to wrap his head around any scenario in which Pete would be careless enough to let this slip.

"The police searched through his locker at school," she informs him, "they found a notebook with a list of names."

Pete doesn't keep notebooks or lists. It can't be his. "That has to be Frank's."

"Yes, it was, it's written in his handwriting and we had Jamia Nestor confirm it. She was his therapist and advised he keep a journal after his parents' death. I don't think it's exactly what she had in mind, of course."

"His parents died?" Mikey frowns. When did that happen?

"They were killed by a burglar two years ago this October." Before he gets the chance to process that horror, she keeps talking. "CCTV shows Pete putting the notebook in his locker a couple of days before the shooting, Mikey. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that."

Why the hell would Pete have that thing in the first place? And there would be no reason to hide it instead of simply burning the pages. None of this makes any sense. The alcohol he's ingested suddenly tastes like a bad idea.

It tastes worse when he throws it up all over Alicia's shoes.


	16. My Love And Hate Are Infinite

_C h a p t e r | S i x t e e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

The phrase 'reborn' comes to mind when I slam open the bedroom door and push my lover inside. He's given me a second chance, a brief shot at another life, the eager glow of his aura beckoning me out of my own shadowy existence. I want to swim in him, touch every inch of his body, worship at his feet if he'd let me.

I push Gerard gently against the wall, my face buried in the crook of his neck, the deep V at the bottom of his throat where my lips rest. I try not to let my own fears of inexperience hinder the passion, letting each moment come to pass like a deep breath. I would space out were it not for the imploring touch of his nails into my hips, breaking the skin without realising when I suck on his throat.

I yank his shirt over his head and push him against the bed frame, feeling dizzy whenever I close my eyes. I almost crush him with the heat of his body, restless and impatient to explore all that he'll allow me.

"I've wanted you," I hiss against his slick chest which heaves with anticipation, "for so long, you have no idea."

He doesn't need to say anything in response because the meek hush of breath, the gentle breeze on the hairs of my head say enough. His hands are all over me, stripping off my belt, my sweatshirt. Each item of clothing that comes undone is a step closer to never, ever taking this back, but I already know I could never stop.

His hands move up to rake through my hair, tugging a bit, and I groan into his mouth. Our teeth and tongues collide in a hot mess of desperate, angry kissing, my lips pressed against his like he's my source of oxygen, the wet heat of his mouth like the point of no return to a black hole. Through four layers of fabric, I feel him rubbing against me so I can't stop the rhythmic rocking of my hips, teasing him, smiling when I see his head loll back.

"Don't test me," he whines, attempting to pull me closer as if it's possible when the friction gets to his head. Human bodies don't fit together as well as I would have thought; my hands are bigger than his so when our fingers intertwine, I almost get stuck. The angular tautness of my muscles is sharp against the softness of his skin, imposing into his space. I forget where my legs are when I lay him down on the bed.

I blindly toss my shirt to the other side of the room and am reminded of how much of a masochist he can be when I bite into the curve of his shoulder. A purple mark rises with my assault. My wandering hands are tentative and insecure but I let them drift down further on him.

Nobody should hear us. The walls aren't soundproof but I know how to keep him quiet as well as I know how to make him shout. Besides, Ray and Bob aren't home. My own nails come to scratch at his stomach in slow motion, a warning, bidding for his patience. I want this to last forever.

I won't pretend to love him. He can tell me whatever lie he wishes but I need this to be powerful and raw in its honesty. I have the physical desire to be with him in this way and I refuse to snap out of it but I won't make love to him, not the way he might need it. I won't make a fool out of us.

"I want you too," he says then, as if reading my mind and responding with equal lust, uncaring to the tragic circumstances and how against all fates, we shouldn't be here together. "Please."

I have to hesitate and peer up at him through hooded eyes, testing his expression. He raises his own head to gaze at me, his warm eyes twinkling in my reflection, their pupils dilated. For the first time, there is trust in those eyes and I try hard to keep myself from melting at the sight.

"So don't stop now," he murmurs.

I have to make sure this is what he wants. His eyes may say one thing but I need to hear it out loud too, that he's certain he won't regret this in the morning, whatever we end up doing. "I don't want to force you."

A peachy blush spreads across his cheeks, his shy side coming out to play as much as he tries to fend it off. He wants to be brave and assertive in what he wants but it's his first time, and he lacks confidence. The words come out slurred together so I can hardly understand them: "I want to have sex with you."

And after I nearly drowned him, after I scorched the skin on his hand into a shining scar? It's a physical reminder of what I'm capable of, of the mistakes I've made. A story that I never want to retell. "It'll hurt," I say surely. There's no lube - it's not something I expected to have to buy anytime soon.

"I know." He smiles suggestively. "I know what to expect. I don't care."

I have to smile back, gleeful at his willingness, not just from his body but his mind. No longer do I find myself wanting to live and breathe inside him, but rather along with him. We're together but we're not one, because two entities clumsily getting along, coinciding, figuring it all out - it's a beautiful process and I don't want to be the only one to experience it. We're equals.

"You'll have to be quiet," I tell him and press my index finger to his swollen lips. His tongue darts out to nip at my skin.

"I bet Ray's drawers have condoms, and grab the handcuffs while you're at it."

What did I ever do to deserve this slice of heaven? His words go straight down but I manage to pry myself away from him long enough to sneak into Ray's room and route through his stuff. My brain momentarily lifts above the fog when I see he does have a few packets, and I bite my lip to stop from laughing because he literally lives in the middle of nowhere. Who would he plan on using these with, Bob?

I wouldn't be surprised if my dick gets dusty.

My trench coat is hanging in the hallway, a dark imposter hiding the cool metal of handcuffs in its pockets. I slide them out and picture how I might use them. I wasn't expecting Gerard to bring up this suggestion and I wasn't planning to either but I certainly won't complain. His wrists bound to the headboard, his face pressed into the pillow... Maybe I could use an empty pillowcase as a blindfold and make him do what I say, control him, show him he's mine. We'd both relish in that. But now isn't the time to get distracted.

Throughout the night, I ask him how it feels to be with me, how it could be better or what I should completely change. In the end it's nothing, because it must hurt him and it's odd and unfamiliar and our bodies are still new, but he tells me it's all he'd dream it could be. After a while, I lose the ability to speak and it's no bad thing.

We're naked, the light of the stars through the window guiding us, the pale blue of the moon's rays unrolling a supple coolness onto the bedsheets.

And Holy Hell is he beautiful, with all the right curves, the illumination of the high points of his skin, goosebumps rising across his toned legs, the dip between his hipbones prominent when he moves up and clutches the sheets in pleasure. I kiss down his stomach when his arms stretch at the restrictive nature of the handcuffs and I have to stop to mumble, "You're absolutely perfect. I'm so lucky."

When we're done, what was once hollow is now filled, pure but tainted, satisfied. His lashes are sticky with happy tears, his lips stretched into a delighted smile. I'm equally ecstatic to know I have this power over him, to have been his first and for it to have felt so special. I move my fingers in wonder to his mouth and he sucks on them sensually, encouraging more.

But that's enough for tonight. I don't want to push his limits and have him resent me for it. We have all the time in the world if we're careful and I plan to use it wisely. I throw the condom in the trash, and it comes off a lot easier than it went on. I guess we didn't really need it.

When I remove the cuffs, he takes the roundness of my face into his shaking hands and promises, "I'm yours."

I feel victorious again at this revelation. It's all I ever wanted, to be that one for him. My life is complete. Maybe it's pillow talk or that after-sex feeling but I'll treasure it as long as I'm able. I don't see his expression twist into something else.

A content silence falls between us before he blurts out, "I love you."

I freeze.

He covers his mouth in shock horror as realisation of what he's said dawns on him, how he's ruined this perfect night and tainted it with words better left unsaid. There will be no forgiving that. "Frank, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I mumble. I have nothing else to add.

"But you don't love me."

"No, you're right - I don't." His face falls but I can't lie to him. "I don't but I'm glad you do. And after what just happened, you say whatever you need to say, baby. That was incredible."

I'm trying to raise his spirits but he sees through it, visibly gulping as the new information sits like a thick stew, bubbling and burning in the pot until it overflows. He waits for the pin to drop, for me to scold and shame him.

I told myself I wouldn't lie and I hold myself to it. It's up to time to heal all wounds now.

>

**In The Past**

Gerard's parents have kicked him out. They'll let him come back after he's spent a few nights on the eerie streets of Belleville, kept company by the flashing lights of traffic and distant sirens. It's winter and freezing, and a relentlessly harsh storm has just barricaded through town. Once he's 'learned his lesson' about what it means to be a young, aimless boy with 'not a clue' of his real sexuality, he escapes the bad weather and steps into his bedroom. It feels like a different planet.

Mikey sits on his brother's bed but turns sharply at the squeak of the door. He launches himself without reluctance when he sees Gerard, uncaring to the smell of the older boy's unwashed clothes or unbathed skin. There's literal dirt on Gerard's cheeks and his hair is unkept, blown by the wind and oily. He embraces Mikey, trying not to cry.

"Where did you go?" Mikey asks. The kid almost wants to call Gerard out - his brother was always supposed to be there to protect him, from their parents and the rest of the world. But he knows that isn't fair after being told the reason Gerard was kicked out. He is admittedly hurt that Gerard never told him himself.

"Around." Gerard tries to smile but it looks forced.

"They let you come back," Mikey points out enthusiastically, hopefully. Their mom, at the very least, is not a terribly cruel person by nature and it was probably her influence that led Gerard back here.

"Yeah," agrees Gerard, "but I don't wanna stay for much longer, Mikes."

"Wherever you end up, you have to take me with you, promise?" Mikey demands. Gerard's eyes suddenly well with tears and he tries to hide them unsuccessfully. Mikey grabs his face with concern to look into his brother's eyes and crumples. "What happened, Gerard?"

Gerard doesn't even try to hide it - yes, he wants more than anything to protect his favourite family member and shield him from the harsh reality of the world, but they're teenagers and they have to grow up (faster that they would like). He utters, "I almost died."

Mikey pulls Gerard onto the bed to sit beside him, turning to him with undivided attention. The lamp on the nightstand is unassuming and yellow, modestly basking them in a light that isn't too distracting. The soft highlights and shadows of Gerard's face do little to hide his sorrow.

"What do you mean?" Mikey asks shortly.

"I was on the Turnpike Bridge when the storm hit." His lip wobbles. "I knew the water would kill me. I just stood there on the edge, thinking endlessly about - about—"

"Oh my God," Mikey gasps and once again hugs Gerard, mostly out of pity and apology but also unconditional love. He would never want anything bad to happen to Gerard. Gerard is his light at the end of the tunnel, his reason for keeping himself together, and his one true friend. He can't imagine a life without him in it.

"I stopped myself for you, Mikes," Gerard finishes honestly, "because I keep my damn promises, okay?"

"We're gonna get out of here," Mikey swears with a newfound intensity to his words, "you and I are gonna make it out, together. Our future is bulletproof."

"Bulletproof," echoes Gerard and thinks that maybe he could believe that too.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

It's Mikey's sixteenth birthday and he's spending it alone in a graveyard.

Things didn't get easier. He's still trapped in his own vivid thoughts, memories of the day that changed his life. It's a breezy Saturday in September, the fall leaves beginning to gather in clumps and huddle under the trees, keeping to themselves. This is the first time in weeks if not months he's been apart from Pete, who's right hook seems to be getting a little more practiced every passing day.

Mikey lays the wildflowers on Alan Brook's grave. Rookie was supposed to start Dartmouth around now, if he got in. He never would have found out anyway. They're all buried together, all five of them. It should have been six.

"Should I even pretend to care anymore?" He sighs to the headstone which has been cruelly vandalised with a hot pink spray-painted picture of the sun. Over five months since the shooting, he imagines the molecular structures holding the body's cells together have collapsed, the tissues fading into an oxidised brown-black decomposition. Unrecognisable. "You're nothing now."

Rookie doesn't answer back, of course. Mikey imagines he would have rolled his eyes and told him he's living on immortally through a high-school tragedy. Young forever, though not so pretty.

"I couldn't think of a better way to spend my birthday," he mumbles, "Pete and I's relationship will be more accepted now. Not that that will make any difference - he still hasn't told his parents and I'm certainly not telling mine. But I didn't want to be around him and find out what crap he's bought me for the occasion; probably some swanky lingerie, he's into all of that and who am I not to oblige? So here I am, hiding away like a coward."

He should be in school but he has no intention of ever returning. Maybe they'll give him a free pass. Alicia's been on his side, helping him through it (but he's still reluctant to speak of Pete directly so they haven't been able to touch him yet). Alcohol has helped him through it, the dark thoughts in his mind. He hasn't tried to kick the bucket yet because he's scared he's been given this extra shot at life for a reason and he just needs to figure it out, just hold on long enough that it'll start to matter and make sense.

"Don't know what I expect you to do," he mutters and takes a perceptive look at the five graves, insufferably silent, "you guys weren't really my friends, were you? You were just messed up kids unwilling to admit your problems." He waves a dismissive hand in Leon's direction. "I know your parents beat you. Don't worry, I can relate."

And then Marcos. "Your girlfriend cheated on you and you let it happen. I bet Pete and Pat..." But he has to stop himself, frowning as he considers what could be the truth. He doesn't trust Pete one bit, he never has, and he wouldn't be astounded to learn that Pete has split affections for other people behind closed doors but to think of bringing Patrick into it? Patrick is a good person and no matter how suspiciously close his friendship has gotten with Pete since they became buddies this year, Mikey seriously doubts they would be fooling around together. That isn't Patrick's style.

He shakes his head to clear away sparks of jealousy and directs his attention to Darren. "You were starting to fail all your classes and I don't think your mom approved. She wanted you to go to med school but clearly that was never going to happen... for numerous reasons. I wonder if she's still proud of you."

He wishes his parents were proud of him but it's probably pretty impossible with how horrifically he's doing in all general aspects of his life right now. Finally he turns to Teri. The last accusation is a rumour that was never confirmed but isn't far out of reach: "I heard you had a serious alcohol problem." He raises one eyebrow. "Cheers to that."

Alan is the only one who seemed to have a perfect life. Well, until it ended. So is Mikey the only one that got off easy? And here he is, wasting every opportunity that knocks on his door. There's much to add to his every-mounting guilt, that remorse that weighs a thousand tons and after a thousand lifetimes will never leave him. But he deserves it.

He clumsily gets to his feet, swallowing hard so the emotions don't overwhelm him. It's time to go home and open Pete's present.

He welcomes the pressure that crushes him.


	17. Give Him An Ultimatum Or A Black Eye

_C h a p t e r | S e v e n t e e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

I must've fallen asleep some time between Gerard's confession and Ray and Bob's return because when I wake up, I hear them all talking - arguing - in the living room past the open doors.

My groggy brain pulls me from my dreams and focuses in on what they're yelling about. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and draw back the curtains, letting the sun's natural light shrink my pupils. I hunt for my clothes as I listen in.

"... Come home and find you prancing around in nothing but his shirt so how do you expect me to react? Face it, kid, you've gone off the deep end!" Ray shouts.

"I don't care what you think, Ray, and don't call me kid when you're the same age as me! I don't expect you to understand but even if it's twisted and wrong and makes you sick to your stomach, and despite that he kidnapped and hurt me, I can't help but love him."

Jesus. I've really destroyed Gerard's life, taken everything from him including his hatred for me. That was the one thing he was clinging onto for so long, his desire to loathe me for everything I've done because he was right, it's irredeemable. Yet here we are, and he's lost his fight.

It feels like I'm still dreaming because Gerard Way is really in love with me. I can't blame Ray for not understanding it because neither do I - how could my Gerard care for a monster?

My Gerard.

I make myself sick thinking like this but I can't help it. I will take every ounce of happiness I can get, suck dry the bones of redemption. I want it. It's within my reach.

"Of course you can't help it." Bob's voice is softer and more worried rather than furious. "But we see the marks on your wrists and neck. Gerard, can you tell me if he forced himself on you?"

I'm sick of listening to this bull. I pull on my clothes aside from my shirt which Gerard is apparently wearing and storm straight into the middle of their conversation as he's screaming, "No! I initiated it! He said he'd never do that and I believe him."

"I bet he said he'd never hurt you either, before he tried to drown you," Ray bites back, sending a pointed glare my way.

Since when did everyone turn against me? Are they really surprised the kid has spent six months in my company, taken away forcefully from the world and everything he ever held dear - and didn't seek out love in every turn, just to feel alive again? It's human nature to want compassion as I've tried to show him despite all the wrongdoings. Ray can shut his goddamn mouth.

"Why don't you stay out of it?" I snarl at him and Bob.

"I should've put some rules up from day one." Ray shakes his head. "While you're living under my roof, Frank, you don't lay a finger on Gerard."

Like he can stop me! I could kill him in his sleep if I so desired. He's lucky he's my friend and I can forgive him for being so overdramatic and butting into my private business. But he's got a point - I don't want to 'lay a finger' on Gerard in a way meant to harm him.

"Obviously—" I start with a defiant roll of my eyes but he cuts me off.

"I don't just mean physical abuse. I mean anything sexual, a kiss, a hug, whatever." He elaborates sternly.

"What?" Gerard and I yell simultaneously. I need a cigarette.

My fingers twitch as I think about reaching for a frying pan to whack him over the skull with. Smoking is better for you than needless beatings.

"I told you before," Ray carries on, his eyes squinting within my glare, "Gerard is a victim of kidnap. You know what that means for you?" He turns to Gerard and his voice turns deadly quiet. "Either Frank lets you go or you die."

Gerard blanches, clearly uncomfortable at the thought. "That-that's not true. I could just stay with him."

Yes, he could - he should - stay with me, forever. I would cherish and welcome him in my heart until we turn to dust in the warm, sighing arms of the earth.

"And then what?" Bob sighs. "Don't you have a brother? Don't you want to go back to him? Doesn't he deserve that, and don't you deserve a normal, free life?"

Gerard's eyes well up with tears of frustration. Maybe he has thought of it like me, and is overcome with inner conflict. Of course he misses his brother and wants to see him again but he has brains enough to realise that it will never be possible. He has to have begun the process of moving on already, surely. He struggles to find the words to snipe back with.

"Stop harassing him, goddamn it." I snap, wrapping an arm around his waist, discreetly admiring how he is in fact wearing nothing but my t-shirt which hangs low over his hips, but hiding him slightly because I know he's probably embarrassed.

Ray is too stubborn to let me have the last word. "I'm beyond furious with you, Frank, so don't think I'm letting this go. And you?" He turns to Gerard again with hard eyes. "You're too messed up to be mad at."

He's maybe got a second point there. I have ruined my lover as much as he has ruined me. The difference is that I'm not the one who thinks of fighting it any longer.

He backs out from under my arms and storms out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. We've stopped locking it now after coming to the conclusion that he's done trying to escape. I know it in my heart that he belongs with me and I think he does too. I'll deal with Ray and Bob later because for right now, Gerard needs my comforts.

"Gee?"

I push open the front door to see him sitting on the porch, reminding me of the time I first hit him. He's smoking a cigarette.

I'm irked for a split second.

"Where did you get that?" I snatch it from his lips and stick it between mine.

"Bob."

I scowl. "I don't trust him."

How can that two-faced slime-ball pretend to worry about him then offer him something that could give him all sorts of diseases? The look doesn't suit him. Gerard is busy remembering the stern words he had with Mikey about never taking up smoking and he supposes it makes him a hypocrite.

"I know."

"How long have you been out here?" I take a seat beside him.

"A while."

"What's with the short answers?" I ask and he shrugs so I continue, "You could've got away, you know. It's not like there's a force field around this house - you're already outside on your own."

Like I said, I know he wouldn't try to run anymore but I'm simply inquiring into why he's changed his mind. Is it the weight of defeat, or the freedom of love?

He flinches, remembering the last time he tried, and his bright shining eyes meet mine. "You'd catch me and throw me in the tub or in the fire and - and—"

That's not what I expected. I thought we were past this. I thought he had forgiven me (which is a foolish belief to have, I'm aware).

"I'm sorry," I cut him off in a mumble, leaning my head against his shoulder and putting out the cigarette, "I promised this time, okay?"

What's to say this time will be any different? I know that's the remark hiding on his tongue but he's wise not to let it loose.

He nods, half-convinced. "Frankie—" He bites his lip, suddenly remembering I don't like the nickname and wishing he could take me back. I'm still so unpredictable like a match alight, burning my way slowly down to his fingertips. He has to know when to stop short and blow me out.

"It's fine," I sigh when he stiffens, "I was upset because my parents used to call me that."

He didn't expect me to be open all of a sudden.

"They died on my sixteenth birthday, October thirty-first coming up two years ago. A man broke into our house, intending on burglary, I suppose, but my parents and I were in the kitchen. He wasn't wearing a mask so he must've understood we could and would identify him to the police, so he slit their throats in front of me." I say and Gerard stifles a horrified gasp. "He was going for me next but hesitated at the last moment, shook his head and clearly realised he couldn't murder a kid.

"What gets me most is the fact that I didn't help them. Maybe I could've but I was scared that I'd make things worse, a silly child with a death wish. With my dad lifeless on the floor and his knife to my mother's neck, I promised him everything we owned and more. I begged for them and he only laughed, and he k-killed her." I hide my face in my hands. Gerard kisses softly behind my ear, a reassurance. "I had to live with those images replaying in my head every day, torturing me. My life changed forever. A lot of things have gone south for me since then; I was bullied in school, as you know - in fact, your brother helped with that."

"Mikey bullied you?" Gerard asks, mortified and disappointed at his brother.

I had almost forgotten that he never knew. He thinks of his brother as a golden angel, someone who is kind and thoughtful and untouchable from evil. The truth is that nobody is perfect and the sooner he opens his eyes to the real world, the better for his sanity. If he has any left.

"Not exactly but he let it happen. Ray was the only good thing I had then but he left me because of Bob. I guess that's why I loathe that untrustworthy piece of trash; because he took my best friend away from me."

I had Pete too but you would hardly mention that - the guy who practically encouraged me to kill. He could've stopped me - I gave him that chance but he didn't. I don't know what his idea of friendship is but he went a little too far with trusting me.

"Frank," he breathes, "I - I don't know what to say."

"Whatever it is, just make it the truth." I hang my head.

"Okay. I know exactly what to say, then - I love you."

I smile.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

It's the kind of gloomy day that sucks all life out of your surroundings, and out of your own efforts to try to go about as normal. That's maybe why Mikey doesn't bother to hide his throbbing black eye, a reminder of his own hopelessness - it's starting to turn yellow around the edges anyway, blending into the pink of his skin like a ray of forceful sunshine. It's October, too late and dull in the year to warrant wearing shades.

Detective Simmons is still pestering him. He doesn't know what she could possibly be looking for now, especially after he nervous-vomited on her expensive heels and pretty much refused to communicate in their sessions afterwards, uncooperative in fear of what Pete might do should he figure it out. The case should be closed. They're never getting Gerard back. Call it a day already.

He doesn't learn much of the investigation at hand, just that if he's careful Pete could stall the jail time a little longer. They're searching for answers about why a school shooter's notebook was in his locker. Why not throw it away? Why would he keep the one thing that could link him to the shooting?

Mikey knows. He asked Pete directly, got red-hot angry at him. How could he be so careless? What was he planning to do with the list of names a vengeful killer was going to go after?

"I needed evidence," Pete told him, "in case I wanted to turn him in." He had proof in case he wanted to warn those five people their lives were in danger.

But he never had the balls to do it, maybe because he wanted the drama - maybe because he secretly wanted those kids dead. Maybe because he's as much a madman as the daring school shooter was. And it's all his fault.

Mikey starts to hate him. But when he let his feelings surface and bubble like the rage within him, all he got was a quick strike to his eye. He never reaches for the icepack, wanting to feel the sting of justice. Because it's all Mikey's fault too.

Alicia offers him a drink of water at the station and he declines. She's trying to be polite and welcoming like she always is, and Mikey has started to trust her. She isn't out to get him - she's out to make things right. He keeps his head lowered when she leads him to the familiar interrogation room, wondering why the hell she hasn't given up on him already because surely she sees that he's a lost cause.

"Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" She points to his bruised face.

He could blame it on his dad. Not that he lives with him anymore but to the best of Alicia's knowledge he does, so it would be a feasible possibility. However, he doesn't want to rat out his crappy home life, knowing that it's the only one he's got and will always serve as a back-up for when things go really south with his boyfriend. It's inevitable and he doesn't want to end up totally alone.

When he doesn't answer, Alicia gets snappy, a side-effect of her obvious frustration. She has to be forgiven for thinking she was finally getting somewhere with Mikey, getting him to listen to her and open up. They're maybe not quite there yet. "You can't protect him anymore," she tells him ruefully.

"All my brother ever wanted was to protect me." Mikey feels like he might choke on his own numbness. "And I was protected, I thought. He did a good job."

"So now you think it's your turn to be the protector," Alicia gathers.

"It has to be; it's my fault this all happened," Mikey agrees with a frown, "you know it by now. Everyone does. Frank had a terrible time in school - he was bullied and his parents were murdered, and he probably had some serious issues with all of that. I did nothing but stand by and wait for the worst to happen. I'm the one who should be punished."

"What would you have done? If you could go back, would you befriend him and stay at his house, fight off the man who slit his parents' throats in front of him? Like I always say," she sighs, "you were - and still are - a child."

"I'm a bad person," Mikey mumbles. He thinks of Patrick who radiates everything pure in the world, laughing as he sings, Pete's fingers plucking bass strings to accompany his voice. They have a future.

"Pete Wentz is a bad person," counters Alicia.

"So I keep hearing." Patrick feeding Joe in his tank when Mikey's here, oblivious and cornered, afraid.

"And still you don't believe it."

Patrick. Patrick, who is like Gerard. Mikey feels sick at once. Patrick doesn't deserve a bad influence in his life, not someone like Pete who hurts and fools and manipulates people. He imagines the boy's dreams being crushed, his hopes in life ripped away from him like Gerard's were. He doesn't want to see another soul pushed into the dirt, and that's why he changes his mind.

"He needs to get away from here," Mikey whispers to himself.

"What?" Alicia didn't hear him correctly.

"Patrick," he goes on, aware that Alicia probably has heard the name before but doesn't know much about anything, "Patrick deserves a fresh start. I'm the only one who can give it to him." The only one who can remove the poison from an innocent boy's heart.

Mikey throws his arm out and slams a hand down on the record button of her device. It's always sat there on the table, usually untouched because usually they don't talk about much at all. Today, it's going to be different. He has something to say because it's the right thing to do, for the right cause.

He's going to give Patrick a chance to thrive.

"Pete told me he knew," says Mikey, "he knew everything that Frank was going to do before he did it, in detail. He described every plot point, the names, the times, the weapon. A Remington 870 - it was his dad's."

Alicia is stunned. Stunned, and relieved. He doesn't falter.

"Alan, Teri, Darren, Leon, Marcos - and me. The kids who bullied him for years, tormented him over the edge because he was an easy target. Pete sat back and watched his friend get hurt relentlessly for years and years until he snapped and told him about the plan, and Pete said nothing to anybody. He listened to how it would go down, oblivious only to the fact that Frank planned on using the last shot in the gun on himself. Pete wasn't blackmailed, bought off or even necessarily sworn to secrecy and he had every opportunity to tell a teacher or a cop or a parent, or to seriously try to talk his best friend out of committing an unspeakable crime, and he didn't. He stayed far away from the school on the day it happened while he waited for children, including me, to violently die with their blood splattered over the walls. For innocent parents to lose their children. And he wanted it to happen because yes, let it be known that he is absolutely a bad, bad person."

Mikey stops to take a shaky breath, knowing that everything is out in the open now. Alicia can ask him any question she wishes and he'll answer truthfully because there's no going back. He's ending this, right here and now. His friends are dead and his brother is gone and it's not. His. Fault.

"Pete Wentz," he declares, "is a murderer."


	18. Through Sickness, Health And Adulthood

_C h a p t e r | E i g h t e e n_

**Present Day - Mikey**

The rest of the day melts away in a blur. Every word that's choke out from Mikey's lips is the unfiltered truth - how Pete aided the shooting and everything that happened afterwards: pretending to care for and help Mikey, to take him into his arms like a bird with a broken wing, promising to let him fly free when he healed but instead trapping him in an iron cage. Mikey is a spectacle to be admired and toyed with.

He reluctantly speaks of his own weakness, how he believed the older boy and got into a passionate relationship with him. Mikey was a minor when they met and first had sex, but New Jersey has a Romeo and Juliet State Law which makes it barely legal - only immoral. It's the whole 'I was drunk endlessly for months' thing that captures Alicia's concern. If someone is intoxicated, they can't consent. Then Mikey dives into a story of needless abuse.

They take pictures. He has peachy scars on his back from Pete's nails raking at his skin, fingertip-shaped marks twisted around his upper arms. The imprint of a ring on his cheekbone after he was caught in another crossfire. A patchy, almost unnoticeable bald spot at the back of his head from where his hair was tugged too hard. It's all in the evidence files now, and it piles and piles up.

He's a tattletale. He's given it all up, laid bare on a silver platter for any vulture to nibble on. His life can be passed over in documents and criminal records. But the bird inside him has noticed that the iron bars of its cage have swung open, and all he needs to do now is take a leap of faith and test his wings.

Alicia asks if Pete ever forced himself upon him and Mikey is doubtful on how to answer. Sure, he was drunk pretty much every time in the last six months they've slept together but it was never violent. He led Pete on, teased him. Or that's what he was told. Sex is an important part of their relationship and this is the question that bugs him the most. What did he really want? Alicia gives him sad, sad eyes in response.

It's no surprise that Pete's parents aren't home when the police come to arrest him.

Mikey doesn't come with them. He doesn't even hang back in the shadows, peering from nearby bushes - he doesn't want to see any of it. He wonders exactly what the list of charges are. Accessory to murder, domestic violence, maybe even supplying someone underage with alcohol despite being underage himself (which carries up to six months in prison alone). Being over eighteen, these are no juvenile offences. Will they bring out the dreaded R word if he refuses to have a kit done or tell them exactly how their sex life went down?

He wonders if this will bring out Pete's mom and dad. Will they meet Mikey and blame him for their son's impending doom? Will they weep, or will they pay someone off and brush it under the rug like they did with his DUI charge?

Pete already has a criminal record and Mikey hopes this will come into play as painting him as the villain he is. The villain of Mikey's story, anyway. Character development gone wrong. He can't believe he was ever by this man's side.

Yet at the same time, the guilt doesn't fade. He knows he's doing the right thing - to protect Patrick and himself at the very least - but how long until he regrets this? How long until he wishes to take him back? He can already feel his emotions somersaulting against his stomach, a further drop of serotonin as he lets it set in that he's going to lose someone he cares about, no matter how darkly.

He gathers his possessions from Pete's house when it's over, watched closely by the cops to make sure he isn't stealing liquor or anything of the sort. He asks for help bringing the goldfish tank home with Joe inside, still swimming around in happy circles.

His parents await him at his childhood home, but it doesn't feel any more welcoming than it ever did before.

"We have a no pets rule," his father says disapprovingly.

"I do a good job at taking care of him," begs Mikey, "he's low maintenance. I'll keep him in my room; you won't even notice he's there." He needs this goddamn fish to carry on and he's not even sure why. Patrick insisted Joe was only a way of explaining his bond with Pete but he was wrong - it's a vivid reminder of what he's been through and how strong he's becoming. He hopes.

His mom lets him keep Joe in return for one thing:

"You're going to tell me why I got a call from the school today."

This conversation was fated to come up eventually but mentally he isn't prepared for how to answer and the violent reaction it will likely evoke. So he lies.

"I've been sick." He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but falling short of the mark. Nobody calls it out. "I'll go back after the weekend, I promise." And he leaves it at that.

They don't care enough to press the matter, to ask for his symptoms or why he's been absent from his studies for such an extended period of time. They don't pry into his stay with his 'friend' nor even ask for Pete's name. They secretly can't wait to have him gone. Mikey reminds them too much of Gerard and for as much as they seemed to hate the older brother too, they sure do miss him.

They don't miss Mikey when he sneaks out a couple of days later to meet up with Patrick. Patrick heard about Pete's arrest but isn't familiar with the details yet.

"How's Joe doing?" The smiling boy starts with natural small talk.

"He's doing okay for a fish." Mikey doesn't say that he wishes he could trade places with his pet - it's kind of weird. However, it's better than wanting to die (an urge which has been steady but not so intense lately). "How's it going with the band?"

"Well, we're missing a bassist," Patrick muses but without contempt, "but that won't be for long, right?"

Of course, he has his suspicions that Mikey was involved with his best friend's detainment. Mikey approaches the topic with fragility. "I couldn't tell you."

"There's a lot of stuff I don't know, isn't there?" Patrick asks sadly. Finally he knows what it's like to be out of the loop, to sympathise with Mikey.

Mikey can't lie to him. "Yeah, there is. It'll come to light soon, I think, but maybe it's best you hear it from Pete." That could straightforwardly be a mistake. Mikey wants to share his side of the story because it'll be whole and true, and he doesn't trust what Pete will have to say - but it's better to have Patrick despise him than listen to him now. He wouldn't be able to get the right words out.

"Pete's my best friend," Patrick reminds him as they're walking down the sidewalk, kicking stones at their feet. It reminds Mikey of the time he tripped himself up, the blood filling his mouth. His tooth is still chipped.

"I know. I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"But I don't trust him," Patrick finishes much to Mikey's confusion, "because I hardly know anything about him. The seven months we've been close are nothing compared to a lifetime he hasn't shared with me. I think my opinions are about to drastically change."

"You don't know anything about me," Mikey points out self-consciously, "save for my poor taste in friends and the tragic story of my brother and a mad school shooter."

"I don't have to know anything about you," Patrick says and looks into Mikey's eyes, "we were the ones who were there that day, and we were the ones who came out alive. Pete doesn't have anything on that. We looked into death's face and spat on it, you more than anyone. And any person with that amount of courage has my unconditional trust."

"Patrick." Mikey winces. "You don't get it. You were never supposed to be involved—"

"And you weren't supposed to stare down the barrel of that gun, Miko," he contends calmly, "no more than Frank was supposed to point it at you."

Mikey stalls, trying to conjure up a way to get his point across that Patrick doesn't deserve any of this - not Pete, not the bad memories, not him. Patrick could go to the ends of the earth and demand nothing for it; Mikey lets everything he touches die.

"Stop acting like you pulled the trigger," Patrick tells him. It's the first time he's seen the boy genuinely mad. "Or that it was anything other than a bad, bad day, where we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can't change it. You can't fix someone's brain when it's that broken."

Have their brains broken under this pressure, under this modern world?

Patrick's words will bounce across his head in eternity. "You go forward, now and always, and you never forget the past but you never let it take away from your future."

>

**Present Day - Frank**

I wish I never told Gerard what day my birthday is.

In retrospect, maybe it's a good thing for my memory. There's not much in the ways of keeping track of time here; no calendars, a half-broken television that hardly switches on to tell you what month it is. My phone is old, and most of the time out of charge. What use is it? We don't need to know when we are, only what we feel. But it's useful to have a sense of self-awareness.

Gerard is more conscientious. He diligently fiddles with the TV, constantly on the lookout for any further news about our whereabouts or how the investigations are going into what motivated me to commit the crime. Sometimes he watches the cameramen trailing detectives out of police stations, their hidden frustration as they pass up the opportunity to speak. The cops are dignified on duty. I guess he gets the dates from the headlines.

It creeps up on me, my gateway into adulthood. He mentions nothing of it until one morning when we wake up together, gold shimmering on our skins as the haziness of unconsciousness gives way.

"What did you dream about?" is the first thing he asks.

I gaze adoringly at him. His eyelashes are pale brown under the sun, his pupils shrunk. The hints of freckles left over from the summer months are at last beginning to fade. "Nothing," I answer honestly.

"I dreamt about this," he sighs and kisses me. My hands tentatively find the expanse of skin over his ribcage, smoothing down his goosebumps. It's like I'm scared to break him now, like he'll shatter and turn to ash if I press too hard. The small of his back is gentle and arched.

That's how we spend our morning, content. I would have forgotten the whole world in that moment. Eventually I hear something that sounds like Ray or Bob smashing a bowl in the kitchen and I groan.

"We've got little enough crockery as it is." I start getting dressed, pulling my boxers on for a little dignity.

Gerard doesn't move at first, too busy smiling like he's anticipating some other reaction from me. Then he pulls on a pair of sweatpants but reaches out and stops me from tugging my socks on. "Come shower with me then I'll give you your present."

I almost think the day couldn't be any better but I freeze at his use of the word 'present'. "Present for what?"

"Happy eighteenth birthday, Frankie. This kind of makes you a pedophile, by the way," he jokes.

It's October thirty-first already? It's been months since I took him? I choke on air as I head to the bathroom without looking at him. It's been two years since...

I don't even have the mindset to process the nickname he used, just what it means to me. Just what I've lost. The clock in our bedroom was a ticking time-bomb and I didn't even realise.

"Frank?" Gerard follows me, carrying a couple of towels. I turn on the shower and he says tentatively so as to not provoke a negative reaction from me, "is this about your parents?"

I lean against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a headache come on from a lack of nicotine.

"Why don't we get in the shower and I'll wash you? You don't have to talk about it," he says.

I picture his hands wandering over me, cleansing away my bad spirits. I press my almost naked body to his as we wait for the water to warm up, grateful for his soft touch. "That sounds like a good present."

He smiles so hard his eyes crinkle, dimples creasing. "That's number one. I think you'll like number two just as much."

"You're so good to me; I don't deserve it."

"Well, I'd do anything for you. I love you." He reminds me.

'I love you'. It's the most incredible thing in the world to hear those three words coming from his lips, directed at me specifically. I really don't deserve it. What is there about me to love? I'm crazy, totally insane. I have to cherish this for as long as I can. I think I'd go even more mad if I lost him.

"Say that again," I mumble.

I need to hear it, the chimes of his voice as he promises me an eternity of affection. The alluring call of a happy life, because even on the run and in hiding, as long as we're together I have something to be thankful for.

"I love you." He slides my boxers down my legs and kicks his clothes away too, kissing along my collarbones when we're both fully naked. "I love you, I love you. Now come on, I want to show you my other present."

I wonder how he got it if he hasn't left the house. Maybe he called a favour from Ray.

I don't need a present. I haven't had a birthday present since I was sixteen. Ever since then, this day has been a curse and I want nothing to aid my recollection of the tragedy. I find his presence is a gift enough because it means more to me than any material possession. But if he's proud of his own consideration for today, I'll gladly thank him a million times over for whatever he's decided to get me.

In the shower, nothing sexual occurs. He does as he said he would, gently rubbing my body with shower gel and shampooing my hair while I stand there like a zombie, my fingers tracing patterns on his waist. Maybe I should get finger tattoos - they'd say 'Halloween', like today. He rinses me off, quickly washes himself, then we get out.

Gerard nearly skips to our bedroom and pulls out a large piece of white card from under the bed, clearly with artwork of some kind on the other side. He explains nervously, "Bob got me some arty things and I didn't know what else I could get you without leaving the house so I hope this is okay." Then he turns the paper round to face me.

At first, I think it's a photo, then after a moment of studying the image in front of me, I realise it's a huge and detailed drawing of Gerard and I smiling at each other. There's some colour to add effect, the edges are deliberately blurred and I'm wearing a pair of fingerless skeleton-inspired gloves. It's absolutely perfect and my jaw hangs.

How did he manage to get this without a reference, with no photos? I can see the love in his eyes reflected back at me, every emotion known to man displayed on the thin piece of card, spread out in a two-dimensional wonder.

"It's - it's beautiful," I stammer, almost lost for words, "I didn't expect you to get me anything, never mind such a priceless piece of art and - and I'll never be able to give you something this incredible."

"I don't want anything but you and that's more than enough." He balances the drawing against the wall, and comes over with a beaming smile to wrap his arms around my neck and kiss me.

I kiss back, all of a sudden utterly overwhelmed at how deeply I care for the boy in my arms, my beautiful, naïve lover, all mine as I'm all his. It's now that I realise he's the most important part of my life, outweighing Ray and the tombstone itself six feet above the bodies of my parents. It's shocking to hear myself think that, but I'm okay with it; I accept it. I'm beyond ever considering letting him go or die. I want to stay with him for as long as I can, and I know why.

It was never supposed to happen this way. Had he not fallen for me, been kind to me, gone out of his way to create this masterpiece for my birthday - maybe I would feel differently. No longer do I feel the urge to tear apart my skin and leave it, to hop into another body and life for all the horrible deeds I've done, to leave all the suffering behind. The notion of driving to Mexico and starting anew is behind us. I'll be wholly happy for the rest of my days anywhere we end up, if this can continue on. It's everything I ever wanted and more and I wouldn't change a thing.

Because I'm in love with Gerard Way.


	19. The End Of All Good Things

_C h a p t e r | N i n e t e e n_

**Present Day - Mikey**

A party just isn't a party for Mikey Way without a heartbreak.

He tells himself this will be the last time he drinks until he's twenty-one, or at least until he moves out of Belleville and builds a new life for himself. He is a gilded, barely roistering youth, up until now intent on ending his own life by the end of the year. Now he can start to imagine a glimpse of January, the thin snow sheets that fall with that blue feeling. Resolutions of weight loss and good habits. He wants a head start, and that begins with cutting out alcohol cold turkey.

This is the last night, he swears.

Patrick and his circle of friends aren't feeling talkative, still unsure what to think about Pete. Rumours have spread like a disease. Mikey neither confirms nor denies any of them. They're some miles out of town, shadows of trees covering their tiny bodies and reckless mistakes. There's a bonfire, a pathetic attempt at making a stand, which roasts their marshmallows and warms their palms.

"Apparently Frank was a vegetarian," someone says in poor jest, "I wonder if he was the kind that ate marshmallows anyway. Screw the rules and all."

Mikey reckons if he were a vegetarian, he'd divulge every once in a while. The fluffy treats are a luxury he wouldn't want to give up so fast. "It's kind of funny," he muses, pouring himself a shot of whiskey into a bottle cap.

The others sip on their own plastic cups, chasing intoxication. He's already halfway there.

"What's funny?" Patrick asks.

"That he was a vegetarian. They're supposed to care about animal rights and then he killed a bunch of teenagers." Okay, out loud, it doesn't sound so hilarious. His sense of humour has gone to hell but if he doesn't laugh, he'll cry or drink himself to death. He's a long way from over it.

There's some low chuckles from the group, trying to make him feel included, but Patrick hardly cracks a smile. "Are we really gonna sit in this clearing all night and talk about the psycho who scarred us for life?" He raises his solo cup filled with cheap beer, making an impromptu toast. "Here's to new opportunities. Here's to Andy Hurley and finally skipping town."

Mikey stammers a 'cheers' then has to ask, "What - who are you talking about?"

"He's our drummer," Patrick informs him, talking about his band, and then his voice goes low in remorse, "who's moving to Chicago."

"You're moving to Chicago?" Mikey repeats dumbly. The whole band? That would include Pete except...

"We've heard enough about the case - or rather, we've seen you refuse to talk about it and we can assume it's pretty bad." Patrick holds a marshmallow over the fire. "None of us want to stay here and we're not going to let Pete's drama hold us back. I know he's getting locked up, Miko." He shakes his head to stop Mikey from interrupting. "So yeah, there's an opening for a bassist." He looks at the younger, vulnerable boy and asks him an impossibly huge question. "Are you coming?"

Chicago. His New Year, his fresh start. But he can't, and this is his heartbreak of the night.

"No," he answers at once and the words are cloaked in shame, "I have unfinished business here."

Patrick nods like he was expecting such a response. "That's okay." He pulls back his blackened candy to eat, the soft licking of the flames tainting his face with orange. "We've got some time before we go. Andy's still looking at apartments. He has family in the industry, connections who could sign us."

"I've never even heard you play." Mikey deflates. He's going to miss Patrick. Christ, he wants to go but something is holding him here - his parents, Pete, Gerard? God only knows.

"We've been doing some small gigs in town over summer, got to New York a few times. It's nothing major but it's our Plan A, and there's no backup. We owe it to ourselves to try make a name for ourselves."

"And Pete?" Mikey presses. This warrants a sour face of uncertainty as Patrick takes a deep drink from his cup.

"Like I said - like you know - he'll be locked up. Whatever he did, I wouldn't be surprised." He's an all-seeing owl, head full of wisdom when he eyes Mikey up. "He didn't treat you the way people are supposed to be treated." It's a statement, not a question.

Mikey says nothing, still conflicted. The urge to get raging drunk eats at him.

"I want to sing about what happened here," Patrick admits suddenly and the confession makes his companion want to weep. "In Chicago, in Seattle, in Las Vegas and LA."

"West Coast, then," Mikey alleges but it's not an accusation, "far from New Jersey."

"I'd happily live the California Dream. None of us have ever been out there. Maybe we'll make our way over, steadily aiming for the Pacific Coast. Maybe we'll totally flop and the whole thing will have been for nothing, Andy's connections be damned." He shrugs. "Have to do something though. Have to keep going forward."

Mikey wishes he could have that mindset but something is always holding him back.

>

**In The Past**

Exactly two years ago, I walk through the door of my house, throwing my school-bag onto the stairs and hanging my jacket up beside it. "Mom? Dad? Are you in?"

It hasn't been a bad day. I got a B in my latest English paper and being Friday, I've completed the stretch of another long week of education. I feel boundless, free from the torment of any bullying for at least the weekend, ready to spend all the time I can with my family.

"In the kitchen!" My mom chirps, and the smell of fresh vegetarian lasagne proves her right.

I must look like a hungry animal from a Disney movie upon smelling a pie, my nose practically lifting me off my feet and toward my dinner.

It's pretty early but my parents know I don't tend to eat breakfast nor a huge lunch so I've built up an appetite over the course of the day. They can read my mind in terms of the menu I would have picked.

"You're home late," she notes as she opens the oven and pulls out a perfectly made meal. I'm convinced my mother is the world's best cook.

"I went out with Ray. Where's dad?"

"He got bored with the car being at the mechanics', so he went hunting with that damn new shotgun of his," she sighs, dropping the oven-mitts on the counter, "you and I, Frankie, could never understand what he finds so enjoyable about slaughtering helpless and innocent creatures."

The way she says it makes it seem harsher than it really is. He doesn't always enjoy it - we make good money out of selling what he hunts and that's the main motive. He's quick and humane when he puts them down. I don't approve of it, especially being a vegetarian, but it could be worse.

"Lasagne's my favourite," I smile, changing the subject.

She makes it from scratch and has spent years perfecting the recipe. I could have it for every meal for the rest of my life and still, she hasn't told me exactly what ingredients she uses. 'They're a secret until you go to college and learn the joys of cooking for yourself.' I, for one, can't wait.

"I know," she sing-songs, "that's why I made it. It's your birthday, of course. Did you think any more about what you plan on doing?"

"I'll probably just go see a movie with Ray tomorrow since it's Friday."

Maybe I'll call up Pete tonight. We could stay up late and I could meet Ray in the morning for the movie. 'John Wick' was just released and everyone can agree that Keanu Reeves is a legend. I need a little action and excitement this weekend since it's not every day you turn sixteen.

"You and that boy are joined at the hip." Mom sighs dramatically but teasingly with a smile. "I can't believe my baby is in his second last year of high-school."

"I've been in it for a while now, mom." I chuckle.

Junior year hasn't been kind to me - the assessments are piling up and I really can't wait to be a senior, and to graduate in 2016. I want the limitless glory of the Earth at my feet, to walk out those double doors and know I'm free.

"Have you considered college any more?" She knows I don't want to go - she knows I want to run off and get tattoos and maybe start a band, and although we're both aware it's unrealistic, she supports me no matter what.

"I don't know." I mumble. Thoughts of the future stress me out. I sit down and pick at the frayed edges of my made-fingerless gloves.

"None of that at the table," she scolds me upon seeing the scattered black thread and the front door slams shut, indicating my dad is back. I haven't seen him all day so I get to my feet and grin when I run over to him.

He smiles back and envelopes me in a hug. "Happy birthday, kid."

"I'm not!" I protest.

"I get two more years of calling you that and I don't plan on wasting them."

"Love, I made lasagne." Mom comes up behind us and kisses my dad on the cheek. He rolls his eyes at her modesty and pulls her in for mouth-to-mouth contact to which she laughs. After twenty years of being married, there's still so much love between them.

I pretend to gag and look away but it brings a fondness to my heart too. If I could ever share half that amount of love with someone else, I'd be complete. But there's something that continuously nags at me.

Sometimes I feel there's something wrong with me because I really can't - God knows I've tried - feel so strongly about anyone, not even them. Of course they're my parents and I have a connection with both of them, and they're almost tragically perfectly lovely people, but I don't love them, and this scares me. I'd never tell them, though. Maybe I'm a sociopath or just incapable of love.

I mean, okay, I love them a little - they brought me into this world, nurtured and protected me, and I'll always feel close to them. I owe them everything. But sometimes I simply confuse affection with obligation.

"I only got two rabbits today." Dad pulls a face at his lack of progress and it's only then that I realise the pair of dead, furry things slung over his shoulder. I grimace and step away from him.

"Well, you can put them away before you sit down for dinner - somewhere they won't smell." Mom rolls her eyes, remembering the time he left a bird in the cupboard for a week before it stank out the entire house for a month.

He has some unnerving hobbies and habits but nobody tries to stop him.

He hides them away then we all sit down to dinner. Dad pipes up with a mouthful of quorn, "have you opened your present yet?"

"I—"

I'm interrupted by the sound of the door opening then closing and quiet footsteps. My mom almost calls out presumably to ask who's there but my dad slaps a hand over her mouth in panic.

"Sh," he whispers to us, "I'll get the shotgun."

She stares at him wide-eyed with confusion but he's quick to act, hardened in the way of the hunt. I'm just a kid, totally clueless and reliant on them to protect me like they always have. I trust them. I tremble in my seat, fearing I'll swallow my own tongue in attempts to keep silent.

He stands up and his chair scrapes back noisily. We all flinch and the stranger at the door's footsteps quicken in our direction.

A middle-aged man with a dark beard, black beanie, combat boots and beady eyes appears at the kitchen doorway. He holds a knife up and has a large bag in his other hand.

He's a stranger, clearly intent on mugging us. His clothes suggest he was meant to be in stealth mode, probably having seen the lack of car out front - of course it's at the mechanic's shop, timing be damned - and the kitchen light is round back, hidden from the dark skies of dusk. His back straightens in mild surprise when he spots the owners of the house.

"Thought there'd be nobody 'ere," he comments in a strong Southern accent, watching how my family stand and huddle together, my dad in front of us and spreading his arms out. "No car in the drive, ain't that right? I was gonna steal some things from ya then take off, but I ain't lettin' no witnesses go free." He lunges for my dad.

A lot of things happen at once. The memories are foggy because maybe I'm so terrified that I'm on the brink of passing out. In years to come, I'll wish I had eaten breakfast or a larger lunch for the energy it could have provided me - I wish for my muscles to grow, to give me strength and courage in the face of danger. But I'm only sixteen.

Dad fights him off, landing a swift kick to his abdomen and punching him in the throat, leaving him to bend over and choke. But the criminal does have a knife and he captures my dad in a headlock, collapsing back onto one of the chairs at the table and pressing the blade to his neck.

"Frank!" Mom cries out, her arms protectively tightening around me.

She's shouting out for my dad who shares my name, the bulge of his Adam's apple scraping against the knife. The burglar coughs out, stunned from the attack on his own neck, quickly regaining the upper hand.

"Mm, your wife sure is pretty, Frank." The invader eyes up my mom and I feel vomit threatening to spill from my mouth. "Maybe I'll have some fun with her 'fore I chop her up, huh?"

It feels like I'm inside the box of an old television, staring at the scene from the outside in. Biting my nails, hiding behind a cushion or clutching the edge of a loveseat. I can hardly watch.

"No—" My dad tries to elbow him in the ribs but the burglar leans back before purposely digging the blade into my dad's neck, sliding it across his throat in a single clean motion. A thin red line manifests from his flesh, bright and clumped. Blood spurts and he claws at his enemy's arms before collapsing onto the floor, lifeless. A pool swims around him.

"FRANK!" My mom screeches and launches herself at the man. He also gets her in a headlock and tugs at her hair, licking his lips.

I scream. My knees shake and I force myself to look away from my father's corpse, backing into the counter and trembling in shock horror. I've never seen a dead body; I thought I would never need to, and especially not like this. The lasagne grows cold, its smell wafting to our noses, mixed in with iron and the stench of fear.

The man pulls tighter on my mom's hair and she gasps, going rigid. His gloves tangle in her hair. The imaginary TV box I reside in has switched off, leaving a blank screen I'm trying to fight through.

"Please." My voice cracks beyond recognition. I don't know what I should say - what the right move is to make. No amount of nature and nurture in the world prepares you to negotiate for your mother's life.

"Please what?" The man taunts.

This is all a game to him. We are pawns in his chess set, pieces of carved wood that can be knocked over and disposed of if he's careless enough.

I blanch. "We have money, o-okay? Just - just take whatever you want and p-please leave, please! I'll do anything; don't h-hurt her! Oh, God."

Maybe he'll take the offer. It's what he came here for, right? He wanted our valuables, to sneak around and stuff them in his pockets when he thought no-one was home under the cover of a dark October night, disguised more effectively than a Halloween mask. But this is no ordinary burglar and the dead body of my father on the floor proves it.

He laughs. It's low and dangerous before he stops. "No witnesses." Then he slits my mother's throat.

I yell again, collapsing to my knees then scrambling away from the pool of blood, clutching my head with my hands.

It's everywhere, the red. I think I'll recall the colour for as long as I live and even after that. The flawless texture worms its way to where I sit, ruining the tiles like acid in a bathtub. It unfolds in slow motion like I'm drowning. The threat of blacking out is there at the back of my scorched mind.

I was about to eat my favourite meal with my family, a perfectly average Friday night. I was supposed to call Pete, ask him for company on my birthday, go to see 'John Wick' with Ray in the morning. We would have stared at that big screen in the movie theatre without a care in the world, getting lost in mindless entertainment. That was as much of a thrill as I craved.

The murderer starts toward me before shaking his head. He wipes the knife clear of fingerprints, making sure nobody will ever find him, and drops it by my feet. I cover my eyes and hear him run out the back door.

I briefly open my eyes, turning to gag at my parents' bodies, before the lights go out for good.

Of course, the lights stay out for a long, long time.

It's a shame that my dad couldn't reach his gun in time. If he did, I would have never come into possession of the thing, would have never had to pull the trigger on it myself. It's funny, the wedges that time and fate push into your psyche.

A year and a half later, my psyche will totally and irreversibly break down. I will take that weapon and use it to kill as I've seen others killed. I will hear their screams and release them from the burdens of their life, from their grip on reality.

I remember what I ask Pete less than forty-eight hours before it happens, before I make the decision to commit my unspeakable crime: "Do you believe in hell?"

He smokes those damn menthols, the cool air flooding his lungs. He sucks on one like a lifeline, like it tethers him to the ground and himself and keeps him from being yanked up into the clouds, far out of the atmosphere he hates so much. I bet he wishes he could leave it sometimes too. Maybe that's why I don't tell him I don't want to leave the scene alive.

"I believe," Pete draws out like a great philosopher, "in nothing. No heaven, no karma, no hauntings." Another puff, another poisonous breath in then out. "No God, no soulmates. People spend their entire miserable existences helping each other - trying to get their loved ones on the right path to the great gig in the sky. But those pearly white gates have never existed, and if they did, no human being on this earth is worthy enough to escape their fate of rotting in the ground."

He turns to me then, a real sinner. He pauses to consider a wicked idea, an encouragement to my evil. "I would make it hurt," he divulges, referring to my plan, "there's no use for a shotgun. I'll tell you this: one by one, a baseball bat would be my weapon of choice." He smirks to himself, a finite hint of his own insanity much to my obliviousness. "It feels good to make people hurt."

This is what I want. This is all I have: pain. I'm absorbed in it, collecting it at every turn of my life story. And in my delirium, I take his word for it and think he's right. It will feel good to do what I plan to do.

This is the end of all good things.


	20. Lima Syndrome

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y_

**Present Day - Frank**

We fall in love in November, in what I would typically expect to be a bitter chill, fewer daylight hours and a second layer of blankets on the bed. But we're south now, a small hideaway, but not enclosed like the cold shelter of forests or skyscrapers would usually provide. The dirt road out front is still warm to the touch like wheels have spun on it.

Being eighteen, I realise, means I don't have to be a helpless kid anymore. I make my own decisions and I don't need anyone - not even my parents - to guide me, so visiting their shared grave to rant about my problems becomes less of a rational option.

I make the journey all the way up the coast myself, still not prepared to take Gerard with me. One day, soon. I'm scared enough a motorist will recognise me alone, never mind with my captive. We must make a famous duo by now, the school shooter who lived and took someone off into the sunset with him like a dark knight, never to be recognised in public again. The tragedies who got away. I shouldn't be so bold and thoughtless, reckless enough to make this journey a second time.

Yet here I am, again, probably only because I was out of town buying Gerard a phone and thought to take the very, very long way as an excuse, but nevertheless, I'm sat opposite the familiar cracked stone smoking a Red. And I have one last thing to say, one important note that's taken me all the way across states.

"I met this boy," I start quietly, "and at first I hated him because I thought he was like the rest - just another kid from high-school who thought I was a worthless piece of crap. So I put up my walls and didn't let him see how hurt I was... I never intended on him knocking those walls down but it turns out he's not like anybody else. Mom, you always said I'd find someone who loved me no matter what I did. Well, I've committed a fair share of sins, and I've hurt him worse than I've hurt anyone, but somehow this boy still loves me.

"You wouldn't believe the evil I've committed. You wouldn't even call me your son if you were alive to see it, especially after how you met your ends. I thought I was beyond redemption - Ray seems to still think that too, at least. I made mistakes, I'll admit. But I'm trying to change for this boy, to let him bring out the goodness in me that was there before I grew up too fast, before I lost you and my humanity. Before anyone picked on the shy kid with a vendetta. I was capable of love back then, I just didn't know it yet and I needed time to bloom, to figure it all out. I think I've sussed it now.

"Dad, you'd like him a lot too. He's got an amazing voice like you did, and he's an artist too. I didn't even know I was gay but I should've known from the moment I laid eyes on him that this is it - this is my downward spiral into a chasm I can't get out of, into this pit of feelings I've never had before. He'd do anything for me and I'm starting to understand what that means: that this is real, and there are good people in the world who aren't just out to hurt me. He makes me feel, I don't know what, but it's enough. It's more than enough. The idea of harming him again makes me sick, and he's more important to me than the world itself. I think I'm in love with him.

"Everything about him makes me weak. He's forgiving, understanding, he's beautiful; he's all I've ever wanted. I was convinced I couldn't feel this way about anyone, not even you, but he's proved me wrong. You were right, mom... I've found the one I would die for." I smile and swipe my thumb across the stone to clear the dust off their names before heading back to the car.

That's all I needed to tell them. I don't know if they're out there somewhere, watching over me or if what Pete said was right: there's nothing after we die. In any case, it brings me comfort to think of it that way, to envision them as a light in my life, guiding me away from damnation. No matter what, my parents would want to be there for me. I can't blame anyone but myself for my sins and it's up to me to make my peace with the Earth, but hell if I can't believe there's something out there willing to help me.

And so I've spent my day getting that off my chest. The drive home is a bore. I remind myself to pick up a burner phone for Gerard, a packaged piece of crap that I swipe from a corner store about twenty miles from home and a charger to go with it. It's preloaded with credit. It's only to contact me in case I'm out doing things like this or... or maybe one day, when he gets to go out on his own. Am I a fool for believing that that day is within reach?

I can't be convinced that our relationship is a lie based on nothing, and that the second I show him out into the real world like my beautiful, kept prize, he'll bolt. Gerard is with me, by my side both physically and emotionally. When he tells me he loves me, it's the truest thing I've ever heard. I don't think he could leave me now, so call me naïve but it's better to be a lovesick fool than just a fool.

I pull up to Ray's house as the last of the sunlight is sucked from the sky. It should be the last time I make such a long journey - after all, my parents are dead and buried and I've said all I needed to say. There's no reason for me to waste the gas money on taking a four-hundred mile round trip to talk to some deaf corpses. My closure feels like a breath of fresh air.

Gerard greets me in the door, shadowed by Bob and Ray who quarrel in the kitchen like some old married couple. I wish they would just part ways already, though I suppose it might not be good for them if the cops grab them and make them blab. It would be Bob I could never trust.

"I got you this in case anything happens while we're apart." I hand Gerard the box containing his phone with its charger and whatnot and his eyes widen.

"Aren't you afraid I'll call the police?" he asks.

How silly of him. I thought we'd gotten past this by now.

"I know you wouldn't. It's just for me, okay? After your last call, it's probably best if you don't contact Mikey. If you did, he'd track it and call in an army for you. I know you miss him and that must hurt but I can't lose you." When he turns away from me, I wrap my arms round his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder.

We're staring blankly into nothingness, the expanse of the landscape fading into the flat horizon and infinite darkness. I could happily spend the rest of my days here like I keep saying, if Ray allowed it. Sure, we'd run out of money but we'd figure something out. Maybe I'll make a very successful and very lucky bank robber. I guess after that we really might have to escape all the way down to Mexico.

"I won't ever see him again, will I?" Gerard murmurs sadly.

His mind is in other places. Mikey. I bet he thinks about his younger brother all the time, how he's doing without his sibling. If he's getting good grades in school, being treated half-fair by their horrible parents, making the most out of the life I spared him. Even I'm curious as to how the troublesome kid is getting on.

I sigh against his neck and loosen my hold of him. I wish I could allow it but it can't happen. I don't know what I was thinking when I let him hear his brother's voice through my phone before - that was a risky move.

"I don't know why I got my hopes up." He pulls himself away from me and clenches his jaw in irritation, standing with his arms crossed.

The mood always changes so instantly and I don't know if that's my fault - a simple penance for bringing up touchy subjects. Maybe Gerard's just irritable today for some reason. Every day is as hard as the last. I shake my head in denial.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" he sasses.

"Guilt-trip me. We can't go back to New Jersey. You know that." I snap.

"I'm not asking to go back! I just want to talk to him; it'll be no more than once a week. I need to know that he's okay."

Hasn't he learned by now that I'm only trying to keep him safe and tucked away? His brother will live on and be fine without him. Of course he's concerned and constantly wondering but why can't he let it go? It's been over half a year since they last saw each other.

"Sometimes you're an insufferable idiot, you know that?" I throw up my hands and storm into the living room before I get mad and hurt him. He hovers at the doorway.

That was maybe too harsh. I feel so incredibly blameable whenever I hurt him, even if it is just his fragile feelings.

"Frankie, please. I wouldn't go if they tried to force me." He reasons, his tone softer now. "I wouldn't even say anything, I'd just hear his voice."

There it is again, that idea of trusting him - letting loose my reigns so he can make his own unwise decisions. Do I love him enough to do that? He saunters inside the house and I follow him like a lost puppy, hopelessly pessimistic.

"They'd take you away and let me rot in a prison cell or an asylum. It's not like they'd brush off an anonymous call to a kidnap victim's brother."

"They might." He argues.

"In case you forgot, not only did I take you but I shot up a school and killed five people, Gee."

"They think we're dead! The case is very likely closed."

It doesn't work like that. The case is closed to the public eye, perhaps, but there are people out there who know the truth and will forever be looking for us. I have to get him to see that I only want to do what's best for him.

"I'm not risking it. I love you too much to lose you."

"You're not going to—" He almost swears like a sailor at me in his rage but hesitates upon realising what I've said, and his mouth games like a goldfish. "You love me?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?" It's too late to turn back now.

It's out in the open, my heart on my sleeve. He could rip it to pieces if he desired and I would only watch him. I'd let him curse me to the ends of the Earth if only he would listen to my reason. His expression softens as the words sink in.

"I... I love you too."

"I know you do." The atmosphere lightens up and I sigh. "So why are we even arguing?"

He comes over to me, setting the phone on the coffee table, and kisses me. All thoughts of Mikey or prison slip from my mind as I move my lips to fit his, snaking an arm round his waist and ignoring the fact that Bob and Ray are standing at the doorway, gaping at us.

"I can't believe you broke my only rule." Ray says when we break apart.

I flip him off. "We don't need rules. This isn't a game anymore." I smile at my Gerard and he smiles back. "This is real."

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Pete is remanded in jail, restlessly awaiting his trial. The date is set for a long way away yet. So many allegations and the ridiculous amount of evidence provided by his boyfriend (and the notebook in his locker) means there's a fat stack of papers to work through by an admirable number of lawyers before they begin to form a proper case.

Mikey stays away from Pete's cell, having developed a maddening habit of biting his nails in replacement for giving up alcohol. Going cold turkey hasn't been easy but luckily any hint of a physical addiction was mild, and in retrospect it was more of a social and emotional necessity for his body. He's reached the supple skin of his thumb with his teeth when Alicia calls him one afternoon.

He takes a seat on a nearby park bench as he flicks his phone screen to answer, shivering in his thin jacket. Self-care isn't Mikey's strong point so why should he start paying attention to thermoregulation for his own comforts now? "Hey. Any updates?"

"Nothing exciting. The murder accessory charge is still commanding the most interest. The lawyers have started to look at your photos."

Mikey flinches as he remembers the marks he was riddled with due to his so-called adoring boyfriend. They've mostly faded now but some scars will always remain. The weirdest part is that he likes the white crosses strewn across his hips, the nail imprints on his inner thighs; they remind him of a time he thought he was special, and he doesn't even have that anymore. Just betrayal. He's so weak.

Alicia goes on when he says nothing. "I appreciate how difficult this is for you," she eases, "I know you must feel somewhat indebted to him for picking up the pieces after the shooting. But he's a selfish person, Mikey, simply looking out for his own best interests. You can't let the manipulation get to you."

Did Pete really go out of his way to do everything he did - acquire gifts such as a goldfish for Mikey, get into a relationship with him, spend as much time as he could with him - just to get the younger boy to sneak into his bed? Just so he could have someone to smack around? Surely there were much less damaged targets he could've picked. It makes him that much more self-conscious. Was he that easy to break, just because he was so unfixable already?

"I'm totally letting it get to me," he huffs mostly to himself but Alicia hears it and hums in sympathy.

"Well, you know if there's anything I can do to help, I'll do it. How's school?"

Mikey lets his eyes travel the length of the park, deserted. "Fine."

"Don't lie. I know you dropped out."

"Well, I'm sixteen." He shrugs, knowing she can't see him. She can't truly scold him when he's alone. "It's allowed. I don't think anybody expected anything better from me."

He can tell Alicia wants to push the subject, to ask something like 'didn't you want to at least say goodbye?' - but he has no friends left to say that to. Patrick's leaving soon and his boyfriend - if they can even call each other that anymore - is going to prison for God knows how long. The rest of his company are dead. If he can't even bring himself to visit Pete, maybe he should take up Patrick's offer on Chicago after all.

"Why'd you call me again?" Mikey asks tiredly.

"To ask if there's anything left you'd like input to the case?" she queries.

No, there's not. There's nothing more to be said. He tells her so.

"You should let your parents know you're not going back to school," she advises.

That's a conversation he never wants to have but she's right - it's better to bite the bullet. Even if it means he could bite the dust at the hands of his father. He doesn't expect anything short of a catastrophic reaction. But that's for him to find out and never for Alicia to know.

His family is all he has left and no matter how dysfunctional it gets, he will hold onto them with every fibre of his being. Even if it means letting them in on this secret he's been keeping for months. "Okay." He straightens himself up as if to gather the courage to do it. "Thanks, Alicia."

"Anytime." She hangs up and Mikey whistles out air, seeing the condensation of his breath. No more stalling - he'll tell them today.

He arrives back home at the usual time one would expect their child to return from school. His mom is still at work, probably trying as hard as she can to pretend: pretend she's functioning after having lost her son, and caught in the process of losing another. So it's just Mikey and his dad, the worst possible combination. Alone, he's in time for the show. But Mikey has to start somewhere.

"I didn't go to school today," he utters. His dad is washing the dishes and stops scrubbing the chopping board to look at him in bewilderment.

"Why not?" He rinses off and dries his hands, forgetting about the mess in the sink.

What's the most reposeful way to put this? "Because I didn't think there was much point after... after I didn't go yesterday either."

His dad is surprisingly levelheaded so far. He gestures to the stairs and Mikey heads up them, leading the way to his bedroom where they can sit on his bed and talk it out. Gerard should be here to mediate, to stop Mikey's trembling and reassure him he isn't going to get struck. Mikey is so tired of being kicked like a stray dog when he feels more like a deer in headlights.

"When's the last time you went?" His dad is suspicious but not quick to jump to conclusions. "Are you sick again, boy?"

"No. I was never sick." He swallows thickly. "I skipped. I've skipped every day this semester. I'm not going back, dad."

His father takes barely a millisecond to process the new information before he's on his feet, a purple shame creeping up his neck as he struggles to keep his temper in check. "Already I'm having a no-good day. Your mother is working overtime to help cope with the winter bills so she couldn't be home in time to cook dinner. Meanwhile, you can't show up to the one place that every other teenager in this country is obliged to be!"

"I dropped out, okay?" Mikey half-wails. "I can get a job, I can help with the bills—"

"You don't have a single qualification under your belt, how do you expect to land a job? What are your great plans for the future now that you've wasted away any half-decent chances at it?" He slams a hand down behind him on the windowsill, startling his son.

"I couldn't go back," Mikey whispers to him, "dad, I couldn't."

"Don't you think your mother and I have struggled with this? We lost our son!" The man of the house is suddenly no man but rather an enraged monster. "That psychopath TOOK him from us!"

"YOU TAKE MORE NOTICE OF GERARD THAN YOU DO OF THE ONLY SON YOU HAVE LEFT!" Mikey is screaming now, uncaring of what punishment his tone earns him. This has been building up for months. He's glad his mom isn't here to listen to it. "I CAN'T GO BACK!"

"You will," his dad snaps, "you'll call the school tomorrow and beg for a second chance."

"I can't! I won't."

"Then give me a solid Plan B!"

"Don't you notice what I've been doing for MONTHS now?" Mikey wants to shout it from the rooftops and laugh until he's doubled over in agony, push it all to the limits. "I've been sucking the dick of a criminal who I know packs a hell of a better punch than YOU EVER COULD!"

He expects a fist to the nose but what follows is so much worse. His dad lets out a titanic roar and sweeps a hand across Mikey's nightstand, sending the contents scattering across his floor.

The goldfish tank spills, Joe inside.

"NO!" Mikey lunges forward to pick up the squirming creature but his dad holds him back just out of reach, his arms caged around his son. Mikey thrashes with all his might to get free but it's no use. His fingertips brush the water flooding his carpet.

"LET ME GO!" He screams and cries for what feels like hours but is really a few minutes, his disbelieving eyes trained on his pet. The fish flops up and down like it's a circus trick, a proud marvel to be admired, but Mikey sees the life draining from his eyes just like it drained from his friends when they were shot. "STOP IT! STOP IT, LET ME GO!"

He distantly hears the front door close and a tumbling of footsteps up the stairs. His mom enters the room but stays in the doorframe, watching the chaos unravel.

There are no tears. There's no time for grief. He has none of that left. Mikey's thrashing turns into boneless heaving, a display of defeat. Just let it be done, he thinks.

Joe stops moving and Mikey keens, "Don't let him die, dad. Please don't let him die, please."

His dad says nothing. There isn't so much of a hint of understanding or empathy, not a budging of the iron grip.

"I don't want him to die, dad," Mikey weeps and there they are, the tears he said he had no time for but are making their presence known regardless, "everyone dies."

His mother is deafeningly silent in the backdrop. Mikey shuts his eyes and concentrates on the pink strain of his eyelids, the lights and shadows moving in waves across his skull. Maybe if he falls asleep, this won't have happened. Maybe he can wake up and he'll be fifteen again.

"Open your eyes, Michael," his dad commands and Mikey does, his vision blurred but the spot of orange standing out beyond everything else. The vibrant colour is at last still.

His mom says, "It's done, son."

He knows they're not just talking about Joe. They're talking about everything that's come to pass since Gerard was taken from them. There are bills to pay for the winter and jobs to be hunted. There are sociopaths to lock up and ghosts to forget.

There is a grieving boy crumpled on a bedroom floor, his eager back whipped by his mistakes.


	21. These Legal Proceedings Didn’t Account For Sociopaths

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - O n e_

**Present Day - Mikey**

"I made a huge mistake," Mikey is begging Alicia at the station, "I can't do anything without him. I'm nothing. Please, just let him out."

The worn-out detective sets her lips into a firm line, having expected something like this to happen. Mikey's having second thoughts about Pete's sentencing. The kid has been through so much and Pete had become a lifeline for him, a distraction, and he's thrown it away. It's like trying to stay afloat in an endless ocean without a lifejacket.

"I lied," Mikey blurts out, "about everything. I got mugged, Pete didn't hurt me—"

"Mikey."

"—Frank, he - Pete didn't know about his plans, he would have said something—"

"It's too late!" Alicia grabs him by the shoulders to steady him. She won't pretend to know what he's going through but she needs to calm him down. "You have to make your peace with this. You're doing the right thing, I promise. I'm the expert, remember?"

Mikey has returned to his metaphorical cage like the hopeless animal he is. The door had been opened and he tried to fly, but his wings are still broken. And now his keeper is nowhere to be found. All that's left are his parents and he can't go back to living with them, with seeing their devastated faces everyday, especially knowing what his dad did to Joe.

He can't bring himself to tell Patrick. He was supposed to look after the fish and sure, goldfish rarely survive very long in the hands of children with slippery hands, but he failed in the one responsibility he was given. It was a simple pleasure, feeding the creature and watching him do lengths of the tank, something Mikey took for granted. Now there's broken glass on his carpet and a dead thing flushed down the toilet. And the reason for it is so much worse than spilling soda into a tank.

It might appear ridiculous to an outsider but that damn fish was important to Mikey for so many reasons. Losing him proves how once again, he has blood on his hands. It puts him back at square one with his self-loathing.

"I need Pete," Mikey decides, "because all my other friends are dead. My brother isn't here to comfort me and my—" No, he's still reluctant to talk about his parents, so he cuts himself short.

"Your parents?" Alicia frowns, understanding something is amiss. "How did they handle the dropping out news?"

In the worst imaginable way. "Well, they're not very happy. That's why I need Pete, so I can go back to living with him while I wait for things to cool down at home."

"Mikey, you were living with him?" Alicia stares at him like he's grown two heads and made a rash decision.

"Of course! He's my boyfriend." Now it's his turn to glare at her with frustration that she doesn't get it. Call him codependent but his other half is locked in a jail cell. Detective Simmons looks like she ages half a decade with this statement.

"I don't imagine it was a very conventional living situation." She sighs. "Let me guess, his parents were never home?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You were sneaking around in his bedroom; you weren't truly living with him, not if the owners of the house had no idea. Pete's parents are highly esteemed and have a reputation to uphold - they wouldn't be pleased to hear about the sixteen-year-old high-school dropout squatting on their property. A boy, no less."

"So his parents are homophobic." Mikey rolls his eyes, not surprised. They always sounded pretty stuck-up. "It's the twenty-first century, they'll get over it."

"No, Mikey, you're not listening; you're a boy." Alicia finally releases her grip on his shoulders and simply looks disappointed. "Not a man. Pete is eighteen and is - well, was - looking to move out and move on with his life. His parents wouldn't want anything holding him back because their son is a liability - they knew it as soon as they got the call about his DUI. They want as little a part in his life as possible as long as it suits them."

"What do I care what his parents think? What does he care? I'm not doing anything wrong," Mikey argues.

"You've certainly done wrong in their eyes now. You've ruined their image by putting their son in jail."

"So let him out!"

"Mikey!" She refrains from shaking him in an attempt to reason with him. "Pete was always going to leave you behind. This simply speeds up the process."

"What, you think I don't know about Chicago?" At Alicia's conflicted expression, Mikey will bet that Pete's made those details clear to her too. "Who says I wouldn't go with him?"

"Because he doesn't want you to go," she tells him softly and her eyes reflect nothing but the sad truth, "to him, you were fun while it lasted but people like Pete - manipulators, abusers - they can have a short attention span. There's fresh meat waiting for him out west. He doesn't care enough to take you with him, Mikey."

This sets a clear change in mood. Mikey heads for the front door to the street, wanting to be alone with his self-deprecating thoughts but Alicia isn't so willing to let him go, worried the boy will turn back to alcohol or something worse. The sound of her heels clacking on the polished floor is deafening as she walks behind him, too stressed to aim for casual.

"You're welcome to go to Chicago," she says, "you don't need my permission for that. Something tells me your parents wouldn't hold you back." She's right about that. "So it's up to you to think these things through with rationality. Pete isn't getting out so if you leave, you leave alone."

She doesn't know that he's friendly with Patrick, then. Patrick would take pity on him; they'd sit next to each other on the plane. Maybe there's an opening in his future apartment for one more messed up kid.

He remembers what he was told the day of the shooting, when the police rounded everyone up and cleared the area. How he was pulled to his feet. It was a 'place of death' and he couldn't stay there. But here is where he's trapped. He puts a hand on the door but doesn't open it.

"You've got what you wanted," Mikey spits, "why are we still talking?"

"Because for months what I have to keep telling you is that I'm doing this for you - because you deserve better than what you've been getting. You deserve a happy home, a bright future and a real adult to talk to." The all-business tone in her voice reduces to nothing and here comes the personal bit. "It's not my obligation to ensure your happiness beyond your basic safety, but it is my intention."

He had started to trust her before Joe died. Nothing but that has changed.

"The bail is set high for Pete's release." This information peaks his interest. Alicia carries on to deliver the bad news. "He has a record already, he's over eighteen and has a history of substance - as in alcohol - abuse. This all contributes to the number."

"His parents must have bailed him out before," says Mikey, "after the DUI."

"That was two thousand dollars, a cent in a haystack to them. His biggest charge now is accessory to first degree murder." She pauses as if for dramatic effect. "It's six figures."

His hopes have went out the window. Crashed, burned.

"Say your goodbyes soon," she recommends, "but don't run yet, Mikey. Chicago will always be there but there's no hurry, and I'm still offering you help if you choose to stay."

Patrick would always be there too, Mikey hopes. Patrick would understand if his new friend had to lurk behind for a little while to get his afflictions in order, to get his head in a good place.

He would understand if Mikey held on and tried everything he could to find enough money for Pete's bail. After all, it's the only thing that's keeping him from losing his mind and giving up, falling back into a pit of despair and dark, dark thoughts - and you can't put a price on someone's life.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

Something's wrong. Horrifically, irreversibly wrong, because I know it's ending.

What 'it' is remains a mystery now, but when I wake up on November tenth, although the date has no significance, I'm sad. The worst type of sad, the sad you can't explain. I'm also panicked, the fear of losing 'it' prominent in my thoughts.

Is someone coming for us? I wouldn't know, I'm no psychic, but the prickling at the back of my neck won't fade. Maybe I have some sort of sixth sense to be able to tell when the police are near. But it's been so many months and if they haven't found us already, I don't think they ever will. We have to be safe here, I'll ensure it. So what is 'it' that I'm terrified of misplacing?

It isn't Gerard. It isn't my sanity or my love for him, at least.

I don't know what to do. I start to shake underneath the blankets, pulling the sleeping body closer to me as a comfort. Swapping one physical sensation for another but the latter is much more pleasant. I feel the shirt on his body, my shirt, crumple between my fingers.

"Frank?" Gerard speaks groggily, my trembling having woken him up. He studies my face through half-shut eyes. "It's five in the morning. What's wrong?"

I hardly noticed. There's a lack of sunlight but it feels like I'm used to darkness, like it's all I live and breathe and know. Like the spell has finally lifted and beaming purity has been torn from my pleading grasp.

I'm not going to tell him I suddenly feel... different. "It's just cold in here. Go back to sleep." I kiss his head as a reassurance.

"Frankie, just tell me." He whines but he's nearly unconscious again so it's not a command.

I half-smile, knowing he doesn't have the strength to argue with me in his current state. "Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you."

"Love me," he sighs with his eyes shut, a statement on my behalf.

"Yeah, I love you." I'll love him forever, for as long as the sky stretches over the horizon and the stars gift their light. As long as fire scorches the sun and ice embraces the moon.

"You too," he murmurs into the air and those two words seem so small and juvenile in comparison to my analogies. I wonder if he'd stop heaven and Earth for me.

"Sleep, Gee." I repeat and he flops his head back on the pillow, mumbling incoherently and pressing into my side.

I don't know what it means but it's ending, slowly and surely, and I'm terrified.

It's myself.

Needless to say, I don't sleep so well after that. I'm plagued with the memory of that dream I had before, the one where I was buried underground. It's like someone is trying to tell me I'm suffocating or running out of time, like there's an unknown pressure intent on crushing me. Will I take Gerard with me under the dirt?

"Are you feeling okay?" Ray asks four hours later while he's flipping some pancakes. He finally went out to buy some decent ingredients to make something other than toast or cereal. "You look ill."

It's the first time he's spoken to me in a while without hostility, having not been too comfortable with getting involved in my affairs. He mostly kept his distance and Bob did too. It's changed now.

"Just tired." I'm not lying anyway.

Thank God he's gotten over Gerard and I's messed up relationship. He stopped trying after realising we do in fact deeply care about each other. He still gives me warning looks when he's a witness to our PDA and seems to worry about Gerard's safety more than what's necessary.

I guess I don't blame him. He's seen how I've hurt Gerard and heard of what I'm capable of. He's boarding with a maniac and is probably just praying he doesn't get on my bad side enough for me to stab him in his sleep.

"You too, Gerard." Ray waves his spatula at the boy sitting next to me with a frown. "So pale it's like you've seen a ghost."

He shakes his head but it's true; he looks like me - sick, worried, despaired. I hold a hand to his forehead and his skin is cold so I pull him into my chest for warmth. He curls up against my body.

It's November so the shivering is only natural. We're pretty exposed out here and the heating isn't fantastic. It's probably what woke and kept me up last night.

Ray's gaze softens at this affection. "You know, I'm not saying I could ever be accepting of you two together but one day I might recognise the love."

Just to push Ray's buttons, I kiss Gerard on the lips with a small smirk. He rolls his eyes.

"God, you're freezing." Bob's voice startles me, coming right from behind us.

"How would you know?" It's not like he's touched me.

I don't want him touching me, or Gerard. He's such a creep. I can't bring myself to like him and I'm baffled at how quickly Ray let this guy into his home. However, if he's willing to accept me, I suppose I should just call myself grateful.

"My hand was on your shoulder, Frank." He gives me a weird look. Oh.

Bob and I tolerate each other, barely; not nearly enough to be friends or have a conversation without me snapping at him or anything, but it's possible that we can be in the same room without going for each other's throats. He disapproves of Gerard and I together as much as Ray, not because we're gay but because I'm Gerard's abusive kidnapper. Bob has seen what out-of-the-ordinary love can result in so it's understandable that he's wary of my relationship.

"Frank!" Ray snaps, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"What?"

"You were falling asleep," he says. Damn, I'm more exhausted than I thought. He needs to fix the heating, it's not like anyone chases him up on the bills.

"No, I wasn't." I scoff and run a hand through Gerard's hair. He yawns.

"I can hear you talking in your sleep from down the hall so you can't have lost that much," Bob points out with vague annoyance.

I didn't realise I talk in my sleep. Nobody's ever pointed that out to me before. As long as it doesn't bother Gerard, I couldn't care less. "Oh yeah, what do I say?"

"Beats me. I think I heard 'thanks, Pete' at one point." Bob shrugs.

"Something I should be insecure about?" Gerard waggles his eyebrows at me suggestively but I only nudge him in the shoulder as a display of affection, shaking my head. Pete Wentz is a hollow shell in comparison to him.

"Pancakes?" Ray holds up the frying pan to show us. They're a little blackened but I appreciate the gesture and anything beats the toast and cereal we've been living off of. He puts a small stack on each plate for us all. It reminds me of the diner, Gerard and I, stealing the police car after seeing ourselves on the news for the first time. Or, seeing me anyway.

Through a mouthful, I ask, "So what's your plan for when you go public?"

Ray takes up the question though it could have just as easily been directed at Bob. He looks uneasy. "I don't think—"

"We're happy here for now," Bob cuts in.

Gerard's fork clatters onto his plate and he scrunches his brow. He's gone pale. I place a hand on his back, worried he's feeling sick but he only stares blankly at his pancakes then utters, "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," I comment worriedly, noting that Ray's prediction of illness could very well be true. But I don't know where we could get sick from - it's just the four of us and we do our best to never interact with anyone else when we do the grocery shopping (stealing).

I feel colour draining from own face. It's the strangest sensation.

"What is up with you two today?" Bob sighs.

We just shrug.

Gerard composes himself and starts munching on his breakfast again. He doesn't need my help but when Ray and Bob clear out of the kitchen, I feel like I might be sick. Great, the cold weather really does hurt your immune system. I get up and head down the hall, preparing to hurl.

There's a white light underneath the door of the bathroom, and it's too bright to simply be a lightbulb.

At first I think someone's shining an unusually bright flashlight, and I knock on the door with a frown. It opens, unlocked, and there's nobody inside. The light has vanished - in fact, it's dark in here again.

"Am I going crazy?" Gerard asks from behind me. "I could've sworn..." He trails off unsurely.

He startled me. He must have followed me, the pancakes finished. Little do I know, the wacky lights remind him of his vision with the sink. Mikey up in that tree, the weird dream I had to pull him out of.

"I saw it too," I assure him. "I really think Ray's electrics are up in the air. I'll talk to him about it."

"Aliens?" jokes Gerard, leaning against me and smiling.

That would be an interesting possibility. I was never sure if I believed in them. It would add some spice to my life. I chuckle to myself before more drowsiness takes over. Did I wake up early this morning? I can hardly remember so I'm pretty sure I slept all night.

"I need coffee," I decide, "or I'm going to fall asleep again."

"That's what you get for being up at five, Frank."

"I wasn't up at five." I laugh and change the subject. "Gee, do you think you could teach me how to do art? You're so good at it and I'm jealous because a six-year-old could draw better than me."

"You can't be that bad," he teases me but he's clearly never seen my attempts at drawing. I just want something to take my mind off the flickeringbathroom light and how freezing it is in this house.

"No, I really am." I go into the bedroom and flop on the bed, gazing at Gerard's coloured drawing of us stuck on the wall. He didn't want it to draw too much attention but I insisted that it was a masterpiece and had to be put in a place I'd always see it - last thing before I sleep, first thing when I wake up.

It's the best vision we have in this place except for Gerard himself. He'd blush if I told him so.

"Okay, look, here's some paper and a HB pencil." Gerard tosses me some things.

"A what-B pencil?" I pull a face of confusion.

Hey, my only experience of art class was storming into the middle of a lesson and painting a canvas with blood. The memory makes me grimace to myself. I was so violent about it.

He smiles. "You're so cute." Upon realising what he's said, he flushes and slaps a hand over his mouth half-heartedly, like it's a joke he only half meant to tell. "Or maybe cute isn't the right word, um—"

"You're cuter," I backfire with a smile in return.

His blush dies down. "You're the cutest."

Have we really become that sappy couple who fire compliments at each other for lack of anything else to say? I can think of worse games.

"Damn, I can't beat that." I bite the end of the pencil and glare at the paper on my lap. "Anyway, can we start with the eyes? I can never get the eyes."


	22. I’ll Rain On Your Grave

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - T w o_

**Present Day - Frank**

"They look like flying saucers!" I complain, ready to shred up my pathetic excuse of a self-portrait. I didn't even want to draw myself but Gerard said it'd be easier considering I know my own face better than anyone else's.

"They could be worse...?" He tries to comfort me but is biting back an amused smile.

I tried to tell him I was no good at this. To be honest, I don't really have a lot of talents and creative tasks are way down the list. I think I'm more into music and it makes me wish we had a guitar in this dump.

"Actually, I take that back. The irises look like saucers, and the eyes themselves look like lemons." I sigh.

Gerard can't hold it in anymore. He bursts into manic laughter and wraps his arms round my neck from behind me, resting his head on my shoulder and kissing my jaw. "Frankie, maybe it would help if you added tear-ducts and eyelashes."

Right. I haven't tried all that hard to make the eyes look like eyes. Humans do tend to have eyebrows too.

I want to be annoyed at him for mocking me but I can't with his hands on my chest and his lips by my collarbone. He kisses up my neck and playfully nibbles my ear. The pencil shakes in my grip.

"I won't get anything done if you keep doing that," I groan.

He moves his hands further down and snickers against the back of my head, his breath tickling my hair.

"Sorry. I just can't keep my hands off you." He smirks.

I toss away my 'drawing' and turn to grab him by the waist and throw him back on the bed, making him squeal in surprise. His legs wrap around my waist and he giggles.

Not to be corny but that laugh sounds like a million synchronised wind chimes, the type of melody you never grow tired of. I get distracted so easily.

"Gee, I really want you to teach me how to do art." I whine and lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Even through his t-shirt, he's cold.

The days are darker now, the wind outside picking up. We're touchy-feely, always, but now more than ever as if it's a basic survival instinct to huddle together for warmth. I haven't mentioned Ray's crappy electricity yet, knowing there's probably very little he can do about it.

"What would I get out of it?" he hums.

"What do you want?" I tease back.

"Oh my God, Frank, bang me sideways, what do you think?" He laughs.

It's my time to smirk. It isn't hard to picture it in my vivid imagination.

"That can be arranged."

"Well, since I love you so much." He proceeds to shuffle out of his clothes. I grin and place a quick kiss to his cheek.

I adore tumbling around like this with him. And banging someone sideways, that's a more-than-satisfactory item checked off my bucket-list. It's fascinating not just to explore the physical sensations, but to discover your most vulnerable identity in a lover. It's safe to say we've used our time together productively and have gained some valuable experience. But it does tire you out.

I wake up at around dinner time, not having realised I fell asleep. I stretch my arm out, looking for Gerard, but my hand fleets around a blank space.

I throw on some clothes and wander into the kitchen then living room where Ray and Bob are but he's not there either. "Where's Gerard?" I ask and they shrug so I roll my eyes and go to check in the bathroom. It's vacant.

I don't know why I was expecting the light to flicker again like some sort of otherworldly spell, a bad omen. When I switch it off, it stays off, needlessly dark.

He's not anywhere. My heart rate picks up as I check every room and find each one empty. I half-run to the front porch where he sometimes sits but I don't see him. There are three cars here - Bob's, Ray's and mine - so he didn't take one and drive off anywhere. He'd be crazy to walk, considering the nearest town is fifteen miles away and it's freezing and pouring with rain.

It hasn't rained in a while and I have a bad feeling that it's a full-blown storm. He could be lost out there, swept up in the thick of it. What the hell is he thinking playing this damn game of hide-and-seek?

"Gee? Gerard!" I yell, stepping out into the torrential downpour. I run around the back of the house but there isn't a garden, and there's nothing there.

He promised he wouldn't run, but where else could he be?

No. No, he can't have run. Not after everything we've been through together and shared. I've given pieces of my heart to him that can never be returned, that are his to keep forever. My loyalty, devotion, limitless adoration. I thought I had at least a fraction of his.

I thought he loved me.

I go back inside and search for my car keys to no avail. What the hell is going on? Bob comes up behind me and rests a hand on my wet shoulder, making me jump. "Gerard's missing," he concludes.

"What the hell would you know about it?" I square up to him, my suspicions through the roof. He is going to have a cataclysmic broken nose if he has anything to do with it. What did he do, mess with my boyfriend's head to get him to abandon me? I would call myself an insecure mess but I don't trust Bob and I can't think of any other explanation.

"Nothing. I've been near the front door all day and I've seen nothing." The bearded man is telling the truth. I search his expression and find that out for myself. At this revelation, I curse myself and start pacing.

"So help me find him!" I cry.

"Didn't you give him a phone? Call him."

"Like he'd really answer." I grit out sarcastically but I do it anyway. Listening to the ringing on the other end, I hunt more frantically for my keys until I find them in my back pocket. I roll my eyes at my stupidity and run to my car, telling Ray and Bob to stay there.

As expected, he doesn't pick up. I can barely control my breathing. Should I be angry? Maybe he didn't run away though; maybe someone took him. Perhaps I should just be worried but, damn it, that would be an understatement.

I can hardly see through the awful rain and the sun has already set so driving is difficult especially in my distressed state. I must be travelling at at least twice the speed limit too.

Not that I'm worried if a cop pulls me over or anything. I'm wanted for a lot worse so this seems tame in comparison, a blink in the history of my sins. I glare hatefully through the wipers and put the fog lights on, hoping it will give me an advantage. The last thing I need right now is to hit some roadkill, some deer caught in my headlights.

Five minutes down the open road, my phone rings. I blindly reach for it in the seat next to me. It's Gerard.

I answer it and practically scream into the receiver, "Where the hell are you?" I don't know if I'm mad or relieved or everything at once. No, I'm pretty mad. All I know is that I'm begging to hear the sound of his voice, crazy that he's apart from me.

There's no sound for a moment but the rain, the wind, the engine and my breathing, but then he speaks. "F-Frank? I - I don't know how I got here. I'm s-scared." He sounds like he's on the verge of tears.

I resist the urge to pull over and talk to him properly. I have to keep driving; I have to keep narrowing the distance between us, wherever he is. I have contact with him and he's chosen to respond which means he wants to come back.

I exhale to calm myself down, forgetting about my anger. "Okay, Gee, describe to me where you are."

"I'm in - I'm at a cemetery, kind of on a - a hill." He stammers and starts to sob. "I c-can't remember how I got here. I don't - I don't know what happened!"

My blood freezes in my veins. What is he doing in a cemetery? There aren't any for miles and miles around these parts, I would've noticed. And if he didn't take anyone's car... did he wander outside in a daze and hitchhike? Unlikely. Someone would've recognised him as the missing kid, they wouldn't have let him go. I wouldn't be speaking to him right now if that were true.

"Deep breaths, alright? I'm going as fast as I can. Do you want me to stay on the line?"

A long breath outwards on the other end; I can practically feel his heart rate slowing now that he's talking to me. We'll figure this out. We have each other, always, no matter how far apart we get.

"Y-yes."

So I do, reassuring him that everything's going to be okay while I drive. I ask him to describe what the graveyard looks like. My emotions have flown out the window - I don't know what or how to feel or how to imagine the way he's gotten there.

He talks about it in detail, the landscape around him. With every word, the picture starts to slot itself into my head and everything clicks into place. No. There's no way, that would be impossible. It's too far away; he can't have travelled that distance no matter the mode of transport in such a short time. But it fits what I'm thinking of too well.

He's at my parents' cemetery.

"Okay, I know where you are." I try not to completely freak out, hyperaware of how monumentally screwed this is. "Don't move, alright? I'm coming."

"How much longer?" He's stopped crying, reassured that he'll be rescued from whatever the hell this is. Whatever power led him there. I don't even want to think about it.

"I'll be a little while," I seethe to myself, knowing I have hundreds of miles ahead of me. This is going to take all night but I don't want him to panic any more than he is already. I take a glance at my phone screen and see the battery is low. I want to scream at my own laziness for not charging it when it needed to be. "I don't have much time left to talk to you but please just stay where you are."

"Yeah," he chokes, "I will."

I take a break then, knowing I have to ask something big of him. Knowing I have to trust him completely for this to work. "Gerard," I say slowly, no messing around, "Gee, baby. Can you promise me you won't talk to anyone else who might show up, that you won't seek out anyone else in town?"

Dead silence for a beat then a stubbornly sure answer. "I promise. I love you, remember? I'm not going anywhere." I hear the sound of thunder in the background as he speaks with a tremor in his voice. "Just hurry the hell up, okay? It's cold out."

Jesus, he better not die of hypothermia. I'll kill him myself just for being so... so... "I know. God, I love you too." My phone dies without remorse.

The rain doesn't ease up in the slightest during my journey. I wonder if it's this bad up north, if that thunder I heard on Gerard's end was just the tail end of the storm. I hope he's moving around and keeping himself warm, but not drawing any attention. What if someone sees him lurking around the graveyard - what will he say to defend himself? My foot stomps down on the gas even harder. I have enough fuel in the tank to get there.

I finally arrive and without parking or turning off the car, stumble out and sprint past the cemetery gates. He's huddled into a ball next to a familiar gravestone and I fall to my knees beside him.

The ground is soggy, aching with rain. The mud ruins my jeans but I don't care, simply reaching out to Gerard. My eyes instinctively scan him for injuries but there are none.

He looks up with tear-stained eyes, or maybe it's just the rain, and whispers, "Frank." Then he starts to tremble. "I - I swear I don't know how I got here; please believe me."

"I believe you, baby." And that's the truth. Seeing him in such a distressed and confused state, I know he's not lying. But the whole situation is beyond unusual.

How the hell could he have gotten here? Two hundred miles from Ray's house, all alone with no memory? Someone must have taken him, drugged him, dumped him here. The thought makes me livid but there's no alternative reasonable explanation. I hate the confusion of it all.

I scoop him into my arms bridal style, one hand under his knees and one around his back and arms. He grips my soaking t-shirt and buries his face into my chest as I carry him down the hill and place him in the passenger seat.

I close all the doors when I'm inside and catch my breath, resting my head on the steering wheel. Gerard is still crying quietly beside me. I wish I had a blanket for him.

I wish I had the right words to say. I'm grateful that he didn't move as I instructed him to and as if he's reading my mind, he speaks up.

"I love you, Frank; I'd never leave you." He promises between his sobs.

I swallow a scream. "I love you too."

"I don't know how I got here," he repeats mostly to himself more than anything. I stroke his hair in repetitive motions, urging him to calm down. I never want to think of this disaster of a night again.

"I don't know either," I say, "but we can go home now. And I'll keep you safe."

"Promise?" The desperate word of a child wanting to be taken care of. The insecurity that he isn't fit to protect himself.

I'll do it for him. "I promise."

>

**In The Past**

"Give me your lunch money," Darren commands with a face like glorious murder.

I turn out my pockets shamefully, showing I have nothing to give him. This has been going on for a while now, the past week I would guess - they're trying to rob me now. It's the oldest trick in the book, so unoriginal it's pathetic. I've lost my appetite for the school meals so I never bother carrying cash on me anymore, and it always turns out to be a blessing since it means I win a point against my bullies.

"I'd wager that Iero's the type of weirdo to hide dollar bills in his shoes." Marcus steps up then, his cynical smirk echoing down the school corridors. They're deserted, with everyone in class like they should be during first period. "Take off your sneakers."

My face burns with mortification but there's five of them against just one of me and I can't refuse the order without fearing being beaten to a pulp. In the background stands Mikey Way, his impassive expression betraying nothing. I look to him for one sign, one last ditch attempt at salvation.

He doesn't have to be a part of my plan. He could redeem himself. I know there must be a good heart in there somewhere.

But he only looks away, totally unresponsive. Like I'm a stick of used gum on the sidewalk. I unlace my shoes at a deliberately slow pace to taunt them, never taking my eyes off of Mikey. So he will be a name on my list, then.

Marcus kicks aside my sneakers when they're off, sending them down the hall so I'm left standing in my socks. He didn't even look inside for the money I would allegedly keep there, but I think he knew all along there wouldn't be any. The floor is cool and smooth under my feet.

He says with malice, "I fancy a cigarette." That awful smirk widens. "I heard a story that you burned a guy on the arm with one once before you were put in your place. If it's true, that wasn't very nice. But you were the errand boy, weren't you?" He stares me up and down. "The corner shop a few blocks down doesn't card anyone. You could pass for eighteen."

"I won't," I tell him tiredly, sure of it, "they ID'd me last time." For my own cigarettes, I would go to the bigger stores where they care a lot less, but nobody else needs to know that.

"Well, it's a good thing that you've grown an inch or two in the last while." He points to the exit. "You shouldn't keep us waiting."

I risk a glance at my shoes separated from my feet. Mikey sees my eyes trained on them and gives them a little kick so they're behind him, in his possession. I won't get them back, at least not today. I close my eyes in mental anguish.

Soon. Soon, I'll have my revenge against the lot of them. My plan comes into fruition next week.

"I don't have any money," I mutter anyway, playing along with the game. They like seeing me as the ultimate victim, and public humiliation is the best part.

"Or any shoes," Leon adds in suddenly with a shrug, "don't let that stop you. Rats always find their way to the cheese in the trap."

And snakes find their way to the rats. I'm nothing but a toy to them. I'll have to see what I can do - ask Pete for money, perhaps. Borrow someone else's shoes. I'll play the game for just a little longer.

Marcos. Alan. Darren. Leon. Teri.

My shoes are nudged further away, another thing taken from me. But I'll make sure to take everything from them.

Mikey.

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

He's in love with Pete Wentz.

That has to be it. Mikey may not clearly understand his emotions or motives but this is a feasible explanation for what he's about to do - it's not just fear of his father or disappointment in his home. It isn't just the abandonment issues that came with his brother being taken away from him or from Patrick announcing his departure to Chicago. There's something bigger at play here.

He knows he's made a mistake throwing his boyfriend in a jail cell, ratting him out like a desperate weasel. He knows he wants him back out again and back into his life and there's an obvious basis: love.

Hell if he knows what love truly is. What's he supposed to base it on? He's a kid with very little firsthand experience. But if this is what it is - that raw, intense gut feeling telling him to raise all the stakes to make things right for Pete no matter what - then he welcomes it. It's productive and it's safe and he tells himself it's okay, and it helps him sleep at night.

Six figures, Alicia said. That's an unfathomable amount of money for a sixteen-year-old but he has brains enough to know it won't come from his family, willing or not. They're not rich by any means. He can't exactly fundraise because to an outsider, the cause could never be worth it - 'help bail out my abusive boyfriend who was practically an accomplice to mass murder'? That wouldn't sit well with the general public. He isn't fit to rob a bank so that leaves one option:

Pete's parents.

It's a shot in the dark. They're wealthy but they're aren't the 'I could change the world with a snap of my fingers' kind of loaded. And like Alicia said, it's very likely that this whole ordeal has disgraced their public image so much that they wouldn't want to help their son, even if they had the means to. Still, he has to try. He isn't sure how, but he has to.

The great thing about Pete's parents never being home: it's an open house. It used to be an open bar too but those days are behind him; he has more pressing matters at hand. So Mikey rocks up to their house as soon as the idea hits home, reaching out to turn the door handle and—

It opens, though not at his own hand. A tanned woman in a grey suit is standing in the doorway, looking at him, inscrutable. "Can I help you?"

Mikey is shocked to his core that this is the way he's meeting Pete's mom. It has to be her, right? She fits the physical description Pete once gave him and he remembers seeing photos on Facebook somewhere. She's had a haircut and her makeup is different but he's pretty sure it's her. He stands back, trying to make it look like he wasn't about to break in for a snoop around. He can always try again later.

He thinks on his feet and the solution he comes up with is less than favourable. "Have you ever heard," he starts and tries to fake a smile, "of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ?"

He doesn't have a Bible. He's never even read it. He thinks Pete's mom realises this straight away and the fact he's dressed in a band t-shirt and his ratty Converse means the short-lived jig is up.

She shuts the door in his face.


	23. Stomachaches

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - T h r e e_

**Present Day - Frank**

"Can you tell me what happened, Gee?" I finally break the silence that's been thick in the air for around four minutes as I drive in the dying down rain.

He hasn't even looked at me yet. He leans his head against the window and pulls his sleeves over his hands. "I fell asleep next to you... I woke up in the cemetery."

We've got a long drive ahead of us. The dashboard clock tells me it's well past midnight and sleep is heavy on my mind. Since the storm has almost passed, it's a blessing for the road conditions so I don't have to concentrate so hard on what's in front of me. I can let my mind wander and consider all the events of tonight.

"Do you think someone took you there?"

That's the logical explanation. People don't just teleport to locations they've never even been to before. Gerard visibly racks his brain, trying to conjure up a solution to this impossible equation.

"There was nobody else there," he insists, "I woke up totally alone. And why would anybody do that, take me all the way up there then vanish?"

"But you couldn't have just walked." I cut in.

"Of course not. It's hundreds of miles." More thinking passes through his expressions, a million unattainable ideas beyond the realm of basic laws of physics. "It's like I blinked and I was just there, as if I skipped through time and space."

There's no such thing. "That's delusional."

Gerard shrugs and continues, "I don't know what happened." His voice is dead, void of emotion, reminding me of the time he almost wished me to shoot him. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I can't help but wonder if it's my fault. Everything awful that's happened to the innocent boy beside me in the past few months I've known him has been at my hands. He's emotionally distressed being away from Mikey and his regular life, mentally scarred from the multiple times I hurt him, and now he sounds empty, like I've broken him down and he's been built up again as a drone incapable of happiness.

We're sitting ducks - what do we do if we're not running or dying? How do we go home without this purpose?

"Are you okay?" I finally ask, a question that I should've started with.

He appears troubled and caged off. "I'm not hurt."

"That's not what I meant," I oppose. I'm not thinking of the physical side of things and he knows it. I sigh, my hands tightening around the steering wheel when he doesn't respond. "It's gonna be hours until we get back..."

"I don't feel much like singing," he comments weakly.

"That's okay." I switch on the radio. The late-night stuff is mostly reserved for insomniacs and travelling night-shift workers, something I'm not familiar with. I pick an obscure station so we can listen and ignore the uncomfortable silence.

"...Ending at oh-six-hundred this morning, Ts and Cs apply. Next up is a request: this is an exclusive acoustic issue of 'Grand Theft Autumn / Where Is Your Boy' by New Jersey based pop-punk band Fall Out Boy."

A man starts singing but it doesn't fill the car like I hoped it would. Gerard stares blankly out the window at the trees that pass. Just as we're approaching a turn, I start to bounce my left leg in unease, restless at the horrific silent treatment. I wish I could be asleep in a warm bed to escape it.

"'I could be an accident but I'm still tryin'...'" I switch it off and the voice is sliced and culled.

"I can't read your mind," I say, "it's driving me crazy."

"There's nothing on my mind," he replies and I get it, it's probably overwhelming, "I don't know what I expect to be in my head right now - fear, frustration, despair - but... it's nothing."

"What if this happens again?" I demand. I know it's not his fault, my bones themselves are telling me so, but if such an unexplainable occurrence is to happen once, who says it won't happen twice? I'm sick down to my blood vessels.

"Then I'll do the same as I did tonight," he decides, "I call you and I don't move."

"You're not just doing that because you're scared, right?" My insecurities make themselves known. "You know I'm trying to keep you safe because I love you and don't ever want to lose you?"

Is everything just an act? Does he even love me or is it a tactic to completely gain my trust then run at the first opportunity? Thinking of that makes me sick to my stomach. I never want him to leave me. I don't think I'd be able to live without him.

"I feel the same way," he reassures me. I think I see the ghost of a smile appear on his lips and it soothes me. The thick tension has been broken and for the rest of the trip we're content, with the exception of the bad feeling in my gut.

When we pull up at the house, I still feel nauseous. This must be why we're feeling low lately, because there's a bug floating around. I get to the front door with Gerard beside me before I have to clutch the handle to regain my balance from almost falling.

"Frank, are you okay?" Gerard holds my arm.

Dizziness bombards my head. I can't believe I was just about to pass out. I have a strong immune system though so I'm not concerned.

"I'm fine. My stomach—" A sharp pain cuts me off and I clutch my abdomen, gritting my teeth. Maybe not so strong after all. Gerard supports my weight without prompting.

"Christ, okay, I'll make you a bed on the sofa." He helps me inside and quickly rearranges the blankets and pillows on the couch so he can lay me on them.

It's comforting and I would smile if I could. Instead I roll over, still holding my stomach. "I think I'm just getting a twenty-four hour thing. You should stay away from me."

He touches his fingers to my forehead much to my dismay, checking for a temperature. However hot I feel, he says nothing about it, probably to not worry me anymore. If something is seriously the matter, it's not like we have easy access to healthcare, being on the run and in hiding and all.

"You couldn't make me if you tried." He smiles a little and climbs into the 'bed' next to me, cuddling into my chest.

I sigh and wrap my arms around him, attempting to ignore the pain in my body. Time seems to float away into blissful nothingness. I feel his heart lulling me to sleep, something we both desperately need.

I don't know how long I'm out before I hear a shrill voice.

"... I don't know! I've tried everything!"

I slowly open my eyes and the first thing I see is the digital clock on the coffee table indicating it's six in the morning. I think about that random contest on the radio and how it's ending. Ray, Bob and Gerard are standing over me like military structures, all business.

"Frankie?" Gerard drops to his knees and clutches my hands like he's afraid they'll disappear.

"What's wrong?" I ask groggily. It's then that I notice cold water trickling down my face, and I can barely feel my boyfriend's hold on me.

"You wouldn't wake up," Bob says plainly like it justifies this treatment. The water is in my hair, in my eyelashes. It's freezing.

"Maybe because I didn't want to." I roll my eyes.

"I was screaming at you. Ray threw a bucket of water over your face." Gerard explains worriedly. "You were so pale and cold and I didn't know what was happening. I freaked out. I'm sorry."

I comb back my wet hair in vague irritation, wiping another hand down my face in attempts to properly wake myself up for a second. Gerard fixes the pillow at my back.

"No, it's okay." I sigh and quickly kiss his head. "I'm definitely getting sick. There's some weird stuff going on in this house and we've had a long night so I'm just going to sleep it off—" I gasp when a sudden pain shoots up my side and stomach, the familiarity from earlier returning.

Gerard scrambles to his feet. "Frank?"

"I'm fine—" But I'm not, because as soon as I say it, the pain worsens and it feels like I'm being stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen. Like some sort of piercing object has worked its way inside my skin. I'm not one to be melodramatic about my health but I can't help it; I fall off the sofa onto my hands and knees, clutching my torso, and cry out.

I try to reach up my shirt, certain there's something there. This isn't normal. Bob stands back like I'm contagious and my breathing hardens.

"Oh God, what do we do?" Gerard's yelling is distant in my ears and turns into ringing. He's tearing through my clothes to see if there's a wound, but there's not; there's nothing. Externally, I'm fine.

I don't want him to see me like this, on the verge of tears and another cry of pain. I swat his hands away and choke out, "Gee—" I try to tell him to leave me to battle this out on my own but my mouth won't coordinate with my mind. It's like there's a mental block, and secretly I need him; I need his comforting hand and reassurance that whatever I'm feeling will pass.

Bob's dragging me by the arms into a more open space and laying me on my back, while Gerard takes out his phone with shaking hands and punches some numbers in.

"No!" I try to grab his phone, swatting blindly like a baby asking for food. If he calls an ambulance, we're all in far worse trouble, because the police will find us. I can't go to hospital. Ray gets the message and takes the phone off him with reluctance, knowing the action will be saving us from a fate worse than this.

"You need to go to the hospital!" I think I hear Gerard trying to change my mind and encourage me to seek professional help. I can't do that though, I refuse. I would sooner die on this floor with him than be ripped apart from the one sure thing in my life that makes me happy.

"Let me look again," Ray insists and presses a hand on my torso. The kind of pain this brings is impossible to describe. It spreads all over my body and he instantly retracts his touch, seeing that I've seized up.

Gerard has his head in his hands, and is shouting something at Ray who refuses to listen. Soon, they all blur into a sour ball of black and blue, then nothing.

I can't be out for more than a minute before I regain consciousness. The pain is still there but it's dull and ignorable.

"Frankie," Gerard cries, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug, and I half-heartedly return it.

"You want anything to eat or drink?" Ray offers. I shake my head.

"You really scared us, Frank." Bob sighs.

Right. I don't know why he's pretending to care. I wouldn't throw a bucket of water on him if he were on fire. Ray seemed to enjoy it as a way of waking me up, though. I stretch out and hear my back pop in several places, still half-embraced by Gerard as he tickles a hand up my neck.

Gerard mumbles into my shoulder, quiet enough so that only I can hear, "promise that nothing will happen to you, that you won't leave me, okay?"

Like I promised I would keep him safe no matter what. Like he promised he would never desert me. I can't believe that earlier on, I was doubting how far his love would extend - if he didn't care for me, he certainly wouldn't be attached at the hip to me now. I have to let myself believe that this is real and relax. But it's all okay - neither of us are leaving anytime soon.

"What are you talking about?" I chuckle. "I just fell asleep, Gee, I'm not going anywhere."

Ray sighs in disappointment at the downplaying of my situation. He knows I'm quick to anger and should care more about this. But on my side, I have no idea what the big deal is.

"You just fell asleep?" He echoes with a grimace. "Frank, it looked to me like you were close to dying!"

Wait. Have I just lost a chunk of my head?

"What?" I rummage through my memories but come up blank. "I swear I was only sleeping..."

The bucket of water over my face, yeah. I remember feeling annoyed that it woke me up but Ray is a crappy friend sometimes (I mean that in jest) so I'm not entirely surprised. It's a dramatic method to wake someone up. I needed that rest after the crazy night Gerard and I shared at my parents' cemetery.

"You don't remember us yelling? I was about to call for an ambulance?"

What the hell is going on? I'm definitely lost for words, lost in thought. Why would they want to call for an ambulance? There's nothing wrong with me, and there are no lingering signs to suggest there ever was. I wonder if it's connected to Gerard's little trip to the graveyard - the memory loss and confusion. We've got be catching the flu or something. I've got to be diseased, a hopeless, purposeless man.

I frown distastefully at this. "I told you that phone is for calling me only otherwise they'd track it. Look, can we just forget about it? I'm still here and I'm okay for now."

Gerard's kiss on my lips is desperate like he's afraid it'll be our last. "For now."

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

He goes back at night.

When Mikey first met Pete, he expected a tough layer of security surrounding their home, knowing the Wentz family have money and they know what to do with it. But when he was busy pretending to be a Jehovah's Witness earlier in the day, he also took notice that there were no security cameras bound to the front of their house. And he never noticed any inside when he was with Pete (and if they were hidden, surely Pete would have said something).

He basically lived in the place; he knows it well enough. He knows there are no alarms that will go bang in the middle of the night. It confused him at first but then he realised Pete's parents are rarely home and they instead trusted their son to hold down the fort - and likely have their most prized possessions locked away somewhere.

It's Mikey's belief that every rich person owns a safe.

They've got to have one. With any luck, there will be money inside, right? He doesn't assume to know everything about the businesses the Wentz family are involved in or what exactly they choose to do with their spare cash, save for spending it on an expensive house and easily-wrecked cars for Pete's benefit. Maybe they put it in stocks - maybe they lock it in a metal box. Perhaps he'll find a gun in there, or drugs. Knowing Pete, it wouldn't surprise him.

He sneaks in during the early hours of the morning. They're on the second floor sleeping, his parents - if they stayed the night. Why have they come back now? Probably to sort out the situation with Pete and his jail time. Their son is the reason he's here doing this, because they don't love him enough to save him. But Mikey does.

He wears an all-black outfit, looking every bit the reckless teenager as he feels. He picks the lock to the front door as a YouTube tutorial instructed him like a real amateur loser. It takes him fifteen whole minutes to be able to pull on the handle. He knows the door doesn't squeak but when he enters without a sound, it's still a relief.

The hallways are longer than he remembered, and he makes a note not to go up the stairs. He could check the studies or communal rooms, but bedrooms are off limits - the sloped ceilings awaiting him on the second floor scream danger. He can't afford to be caught, literally. He just has to remind himself he's doing this for a good reason.

This is how my parents died, at the hands of a no-good burglar. Mikey isn't here to hurt anyone - he could never. It makes him sick thinking that an attempt at petty theft ultimately led to a brutal school shooting. But no, he can't think about that now. He has a task to complete.

He switches on his flashlight and heads for the main office. He hardly knows what the hell he's doing being so bold and breaking so many laws - especially considering he's been in this very house a million times before, knows every nook and cranny and never has he seen hundreds of thousands of dollars lying around on a mantelpiece. Is this a mistake?

No. No, he's doing it for Pete. He's doing it for love. And Pete's parents will forgive him when they notice their money missing because it's a worthy cause.

Their house is damn freezing. Cold, now that it's approaching the end of the year and he's no longer welcome here... for now. Until he makes things just again. Maybe after he bails Pete out - maybe if he can just convince Alicia to change her mind, maybe tamper with the evidence...

Whatever. He just wants one more day with his boyfriend. Pete is bound for prison but he needs one day, just twenty-four hours or more to let himself feel... normal again. To forget. Pete has this effect on him.

He finds a Bible on a bookshelf, coated with dust. He snorts quietly at the many ironies of it all and picks it up in one gloved hand, flicking through the pages. He doesn't anticipate finding any loose bills like one might expect in the Bible of a hotel room. He wouldn't deserve such kindness. He puts in back and starts looking behind the books, pressing against wood and walls as if searching for a secret door. Like he's in goddamn Scooby Doo.

He checks the desks, under windowsills, up in high places. In cabinets and wardrobes and wicker baskets. He finds singular cigarettes, crushed into tiny gaps like Pete had hidden them years ago and forgot of their existence. But apart from that, nothing.

Until he opens a file cabinet. And it's right there, laid bare for the world to see: stacks and stacks of bills tied with elastic bands. Sitting on top of rumpled paperwork, they're labelled with a single note: 'Pete'.

Mikey stands back, aghast at his actions. This money must be for his bail - there could be no other reason. He thinks about shutting it and getting the hell out of there because this must all be for nothing - Pete's parents really do care enough to help their son and Mikey is a stupid kid sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

His entire body freezes when the light behind him flickers on. A terrified voice speaks up:

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"


	24. A Long Cold Lonely Winter

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - F o u r_

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey spins around immediately, casting his eyes on the person who's caught him redhanded. The older man's face is flushed with an equal mix of terror and fury, his light hair sticking up in uneven patches like he's just rolled out of bed. Of course, it is almost three in the morning.

"Start talking." He's carrying a baseball bat with a solid grip, clearly indicating he's not afraid to use it. Mikey backs up with his hands in the air.

"I'm so sorry," he says shakily, "I can explain—"

"That's what I asked you to do, wasn't it?" The man - it's got to be Pete's father - is reaching for the telephone on the office desk with his other hand, not taking his eyes of the intruder in his home. "You have twenty seconds before I call the police."

It does strike Mikey as odd that he isn't calling the cops straight away. God, Alicia would never forgive him for this. He'd be thrown in jail right beside Pete and it's ironic because all he wants is to see him again. "I know Pete. I was just trying to help." He nods uncertainly to the open drawer of the file cabinet where the money lies. "My family, they - we don't have the means to bail him out, but I thought you would. I didn't realise you were already..."

"What do you know about my son?" His voice rises but still is kept low, probably acutely set on not waking his wife. The last thing they need is a massive commotion or for anyone else who's vulnerable to get involved.

How does Mikey even begin to answer that? These people don't even know he exists; they have no idea that he's been messing around with Pete for all these months. That he's lived under their roof. "We went to school together," he starts after taking a deep breath, "we're friends." As an afterthought: "Good friends."

"Friends don't break into each other's houses for bail money, no matter how close." He isn't buying it.

So Mikey says it, the truth. He has to. He's run out of options and he's panicking and Pete will understand, right? "We're together," he croaks.

Pete's father, presumably, lets his grip on the baseball bat falter for just long enough so that it falls to the ground. Mikey considers lunging for it and picking it up himself just so he has the advantage of a weapon, but he doesn't want this to get any uglier, or to completely betray this man's trust. They're just having a conversation is all.

"We've been together for a while," the boy elaborates, "really, ever since the shooting. My name is Mikey Way. My brother, Gerard, he..." He can't finish the sentence.

The man's expression doesn't falter, just hardens even more. "I heard about your brother on the news, but not about you. Pete's never mentioned you."

Mikey reckons it's been far more than twenty seconds by now but still, there has been no 911 call. He keeps talking, trying to fill up the space between them and distract Pete's dad. "Our relationship is between us." His own comment makes him blush, hearing out loud how ridiculous it sounds, like some school kids afraid to tell their friends they've kissed. "And, uh... Pete didn't think to tell you because—"

"Because we're never around?" The man interrupts. Mikey doesn't even know his goddamn name.

"Well, yeah. Because you're never around." Neither of them have made a move for the baseball bat, too stunned at each other's presences to try anything rash. "And also—"

"Because we wouldn't approve?" He cuts in again. Mikey winces at that one, not expecting the careless tone that accompanies it. There are so many things in their relationship to not approve of - his age, the abuse, the circumstances. He hopes gender doesn't play a role; he doesn't want to have that argument with the man whose house he's breaking into right now.

"It doesn't matter," Mikey rushes out, "the point is I - I'm completely in love with him and I know I'm just a dumb kid you've never met before and honestly, I never expected you to meet me but - but I come from a good place. I have the right intentions, I just didn't know how to go about doing it in a somewhat sane way."

When Pete's father still refuses to put down the phone and his eyes flicker to the bat on the ground, Mikey knows he has to step up his game and start diving deeper into why he's here. "Pete's in jail for a few reasons," he explains, "maybe you've heard of them. Maybe you've heard of how he helped in the shooting." The man's brow furrows, but not in confusion, more in impatience. Mikey continues, "It's true. They have evidence on him and he's... he's told me a lot of incriminating details himself. I shared that information with the police and that's why he's in a cell right now. He's also a bit of a douche, your son - h-he's strong and for all the wrong reasons. I couldn't hide the bruises." Slowly, he lowers his hands as he sees the man's defences lower.

"My son has made mistakes in his life," the father admits with a pursed lip and then he surprises Mikey by dropping the phone and relaxing his posture a tad, "I would know as his father. You may call me Mr Wentz, and keep talking."

"Mr Wentz," Mikey addresses him at once, not wanting to get on his bad side and prompting him into using the bat, "everything he's being accused of is the truth. But I hate myself for turning him in - I was weak and in a bad place, and I still am but it's different, and maybe I want him bailed out so I can have just a little more time with him before he inevitably gets locked up for good. No matter what, I think he deserves some freedom before that happens, and I want to spend it with him. I think he saved my life, and I owe it to him to try by any means possible to help him."

"It's a lot of money they're asking for," Mr Wentz argues gruffly. He's gained some attitude, and some bitterness to his sleep-ridden voice.

"I know. I didn't really expect to find that sort of amount just lying around anywhere but..."

"But you were going to see what you could get your wandering hands on," he sulks, "and steal it in the middle of the night."

"Yeah." Mikey tries to smile at his own satire but it comes out as an ugly expression of guilt. "Now I can see you have this money laid out for him already. That's what the note is for, right? You were always going to bail him out. I mean, of course you would, he's your son." The distrusting and hollow face he's looking at does nothing to deter him. "You were always going to give him a second chance."

"He's had a lot of chances already," Mr Wentz says plainly, "it's not what you think."

"You're not calling the police?" Mikey tests.

"I'm thinking no."

"Well, I don't mean to pry." Well, he does. Or he did, at least. "This is a family matter and I promise I won't be breaking in again or stealing anything from your home. I just wanted your son's happiness. That's all I've ever wanted." He isn't sure if that's a lie - he's more selfish than to just advocate for Pete.

Mr Wentz brushes down his pyjama shirt then stares at the ceiling with his arms folded. He blinks and says, "Go." Mikey starts then stops, bewildered and unsure. Mr Wentz sees the hesitation then snaps again, "Go, before I change my mind."

Mikey flees, aided by his flashlight and thumping heart to the door. Distantly, he hopes he'll never set foot in the place again.

So now, time to think. It's past three in the morning. He should go home back to his parents, that nuclear disaster of a house. Where Joe died, where Gerard is lacking. His gut tells him that's not the right thing to do, that he would be invading a second property if he were to return to his own bed tonight. Anything but that.

Mikey grips his phone in one hand and unlocks it to scroll through his contacts. There aren't many. Patrick? No, he doesn't want to disturb that boy's sleep, not when he only has a matter of weeks left before he leaves for Chicago and starts his busy new life. He would always rely on Pete for these sorts of sticky situations. He sighs in something like solace at the next name on the list: 'Simmons'.

Alicia. He should change her name to that in his phone, be more informal. He's a vulnerable sixteen-year-old; he's allowed to call people their first names, none of this Detective Simmons stuff. They've been trying to get along and be civil for months but it's more than that now: he trusts her. She's his friend, as weird as it might appear to an outside eye. Before he can chicken out, he calls her number.

He isn't shocked when she picks up. He suspected her for a bit of an insomniac. "Mikey?"

"I'm in trouble," he tells her honestly, "I need a place to crash." That's it, straight to the point. Cutting the crap out before they start on any small talk. However, at this time in the night, she probably appreciates it. He's starting to become aware of how damn cold it is out on the streets.

"What happened?" Her voice isn't the slightest bit tired, like she's been riding a caffeine high all night. She's probably thrown herself into her work and works late all the time so she's lucid enough to think she can't invite him over right away - it's improper.

"I'll tell you when I get there," Mikey tries, nervous he'll get rejected now. He can imagine her rubbing her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Is he bothering her after all?

She says, "Okay. I'll text you my address."

"It's not in New York or anything, right?" He has no money for a cab, and no patience to run the risk of changing his mind fifteen minutes into the journey.

She's already hung up and soon he receives the text with her address. It's not far from his current location - he could walk it in ten minutes. Something tells him to run.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

Gone are the days when a nagging pit of fear doesn't plague my thoughts. My ability to feel, some of my memories - slowly fading away - and my soul, picking away at its bones until I'm left rotting inside my own empty shell.

It didn't make any sense. How can this be happening to me? Maybe there's something wrong with me rooted a lot deeper in my brain than I thought. I dream of vividly dreadful things but scarcely remember my real life, my surroundings, how I'm spending my time. Chunks of nothingness, like a glitch in the system of life.

There's something wrong that goes beyond waves of sickness, feeling cold or drowsy more frequently, and it's evident in both Gerard and myself in a morning when we wake up over two stains of blood.

Red. Everywhere.

Gerard shakes me awake, gasping for air out of shock, "Frank, Frankie, wake up. Wake up; look what's happened."

"Jesus," I say, petrified, "how the hell did this happen?" It's like a massacre in the comforts of our bed. My senses may be dull but I can smell the tinge of iron, the drying musk of warm injury.

"God, how long have we been lying in this?" Gerard cringes as he sits up and evaluates the space. The pools spread.

They're relatively fresh, but there are no wounds over either of us. I make sure to double-check by peeling away our clothes, kissing him over and over while I explore every inch of his body tenderly, because I love him, because I can't lose him and this moment should be embedded in my brain forever, in case I ever forget.

It's maybe not the most appropriate thing to do but I don't know how to function under stress, clearly. Gerard doesn't complain. He seems to connect with me the same way, desperate to escape reality as we lie together.

When we have sex, it's different this time. His hands ghost over my hips, ribs, up my arms, and I barely feel them. It's like my nerves are damaged. It feels amazing, because this is Gerard Way and I am so, so in love with him, and that will never change - but I'm scared. I'm scared for us, because something is happening, something we can't stop.

Whatever it is, I promise him I'm treasuring our every moment, and I tell him how much he means to me and how much he's changed me into a better person. Maybe love makes you crazy. Maybe this is me finally losing my twisted mind - the light underneath the bathroom door, the memory loss, the cold and pain, indifference, Gerard going missing - and I finally realise that I regret.

I regret.

I repent the murders I committed. I shot five people dead and mentally scarred countless others because I was bullied for my parents being dead. How they acted toward me, calling me names and abusing me to make my life a living hell, was in no way acceptable, but killing them was unnecessary. I could've just ran away anytime I wanted.

"Gee," I whisper, "I killed them." I'm literally inside of him and I'm bringing this up now but I need to spit it out before I lose more memories or bottle it up in my stubbornness.

He flips me over, balancing on top. Stopping for a split second in scepticism, breathless. "What?"

"I killed people." My lower lip trembles and he pulls off of me entirely, knowing the mood is ruined.

"I know, Frankie." He smiles sadly. "It's okay."

No, it's not. I don't want to make him uncomfortable or argue so I don't say as much, but my thoughts aren't slowing down anytime soon. I've committed a truly unforgivable act.

But that's not what's bothering me most. What eats away at me is the fact that I ruined my Gerard.

I regret taking him. I regret tearing him away from his brother and his life, from a shot at graduating and getting a job, maybe a lover he meets at college, something normal like he should've had. I took it all away from him. I'm horribly selfish because I won't let him go because I need him. Without him - God knows I never envisioned myself thinking this - I'm nothing.

I flip him back over and look into his eyes, my own brimming with tears. Jesus, when did I turn into such a sap? This is not the time to be feeling regular human emotions like a sane person, because I'm not sane; I myself am ruined and irrational and emotionally manipulative. I get off on hurting people, don't I? That's what Gerard said.

He chooses to forget my brief moment of whatever-the-hell that just happened, wanting to take my mind off of it.

"I want to feel you," he breathes underneath me, his naked body scattered with goosebumps following the paths that my fingertips create, pressing his body up against mine.

I bite my lip, really wishing I hadn't destroyed the moment now. Those unshed tears still sting my eyes and I reach for him, chasing that physical touch.

"You can, baby," I assure him, intertwining our hands.

His own eyes get wet, shining a reflection across from mine. I could fall into them and drown in that devastated look. My broken toy. Angel with his wings cut from his back.

"I can't. Frank, you don't understand; I can't anymore." And he cries.

I don't know what's happening - maybe I don't want to know. But one thing I'm suddenly sure of is that Gerard Way is the only one I think I'll ever love. He's more than just a victim I toyed with. It's a huge leap, one I know he won't agree with, but I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Maybe one day, he'll smile and say yes.

We pass the days as such - tragic and unaware, but always infatuated in our small existence. Holding hands and bleeding beds. We can't question it anymore. One day, I decide to go out on a day trip.

Outside a small store, inside my parked car, I smile as I brush my fingers over the leather seats. I'm alone and simply admiring how this vehicle has served me well.

The shotgun rests in the back and I reckon I should throw it away. The back seat, I think to myself, is where I might've taken Gerard's virginity if I hadn't gotten a grip on my self-control. In this Cortina Mark V, I first kissed him and realised I liked it. Women will never compare. I'm gay for Gerard Way - not even slightly bisexual - and I relish in it.

I can't imagine being so much as attracted to anyone else. If I didn't meet him, I'm sure I would have gone my whole life without a single relationship, without any connection so special. I could never cross paths with anybody who lacked half my soul.

I finally pull myself into the store and leisurely stroll down the aisles, flipping at the boxes of condoms with a smirk playing on my lips. I shamelessly combine these with a few boxes of Marlboro Reds to set on the counter. The sunglasses on my eyes might make me look strange considering it's winter but they provide me with a disguise of identity.

Yeah, we don't need condoms. The flavoured ones could be fun though - we should try them. Hell, I have nothing better to try out. I came out for cigarettes but they're the happy accident. An extremely heedless thought pops into mind - why don't I try not stealing for once?

Hell, people must have forgotten about that shooting in insignificant little Belleville by now. That was back in April and we are, after all, officially not alive. If someone recognised me, they would subconsciously rationalise the situation and tell themselves that Frank Iero is dead. How could he be browsing a store in broad daylight for cigarettes and flavoured condoms?

The tattooed woman sitting behind the counter doesn't even glance up at me. She continues scrolling on her phone and chewing bubblegum.

"Hello?" I sigh, tapping my fingers on the wooden surface. Once again, she ignores me.

I start to think I'm maybe making a mistake. What if she does know me against all the odds? One phone call and I'm done for. To think I was considering throwing my shotgun away. I tense up, foreseeing a bad reaction.

"Hey—" I stop talking when I realise she has headphones in and roll my eyes mostly in relief, so I tap her shoulder. Pay attention to me. She doesn't notice.

"Fine." I throw up my hands then grab my unpaid for items, sauntering out of the shop unnoticed. It's not the first time I've shoplifted.

When I sit back down in the cop car, a pain in my stomach returns. This feels familiar - it's slightly to one side, higher up, internal. This was the same lingering sensation that I had after Ray poured a bucket of water on my head. There was nothing wrong with me to the naked eye, so it must be a stomachache. But when I reach instinctively to press against it with a tortured hiss, it's undeniable that I feel a small, bloody hole.


	25. Guilt Tripping Mikey Way

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - F i v e_

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey Way wishes it was him.

Alicia brought him back into the station after she crashed at her house. He hasn't told her anything about what drove him to ask for her help last night, but he's definitely starting to think for all the messed up and illegal stuff he's done, he should be the one in a jail cell, not Pete. What was he thinking breaking into the Wentz household? He's so unbelievably lucky that Pete's dad ended up letting him go. A 'get out of jail free' card.

He stares around the familiar faces at the station, taking in how shabby they look from eight months of chasing this case. They know him well by this point. Sometimes he doesn't get to talk to Alicia anymore because the others want a go at interrogating him.

The detective agency think he's depressed because of the loss of his brother, so what better way to worsen this than to make him talk about it nearly every day? Do you regret how you treated Frank Iero, Michael? Do you blame yourself for what happened to everyone?

Maybe if you hadn't bullied Frank, Michael, he wouldn't have felt the need to shoot up your school, and your friends would still be alive, and your brother would still be with you.

Like he doesn't feel crappy enough. He was just starting to get over the whole wishful dying phase. He starts to evaluate everything that's happened in these eight months, all the way from April through to December, every piece of the broken puzzle trying to amend itself.

Months ago, Mikey received a call from an unknown number which he answered in tears. There was nothing but silence on the other end but he pretended, somehow, that it was his brother trying to talk to him from a place far away. The police said they wouldn't track it.

He remembers how insane that made him feel. How much he mourns to this day. How much he'll beg Alicia to help him get through it all after the setback of last night - because it was a setback, right? Even though Pete's family have that money set aside for his bail, and Mikey will hopefully get what he wants, it's turned him back into that shell-shocked kid he was back in school.

Alicia asks him to talk. Fair enough, she wants to know what the hell is going on. Before he can even contemplate last night, the words always on his mind are coming free:

"If Gerard didn't save me, he'd still be here."

Opposite him, Alicia drags a hand down her face. Not this again. Haven't they got past the guilt and moved on to something more constructive? What the hell was this kid doing last night before he called her at three o'clock in the morning? But as always, she's here simply to listen, not to make him feel like a worthless broken record. She takes the bait and plays the game for a little while.

"But you wouldn't," she argues.

"That's the point."

"Have you seriously considered therapy? I think even I'll be signing up for some after this. Every day with you is starting to feel the same." She's done playing the game. Mikey stares at his hands like there's still blood on them after all this time and she's quick to anger. "I haven't had the chance to explain the recent logistics on my side. Not about Pete but about Frank."

"What do you mean?" Mikey asks.

"I'm going to give it to you straight, Mikey. Look, they're still on this case, as you know, God knows why. And they're still treating you as a suspect for harassment, and effectively since Frank is long gone and the other kids who hurt him are dead, you're the only one they can blame. You know what that means?"

She's telling him this now? After eight goddamn months? 'A suspect for harassment', like he's worried about that. He almost can't wait to tell her about how he committed a breaking and entering offence, before calling her up to sleep soundly on her sofa. She knows his main motive is Pete and this has nothing to do with his boyfriend, but rather a mass murderer who is long gone. Needless to say, he's hardly thought about it and has no clue what she's babbling about.

Mikey shakes his head dumbly.

"You're facing prosecution." When she sees his look of shock-horror, she quickly continues. "Don't worry, okay? I'll find you the best lawyer money can buy. The thing is, the parents of those dead kids," she grimaces at her choice of words, "need someone who's actually here to pin this on. They're furious because it's been over half a year and we've arrested nobody. It was a mass murder, as you're well aware, and things like this don't just disappear."

"You can't be serious." He sits back further on his chair in disbelief. They can't blame him. He was a child caught in a shooting, the 'lucky' one who got away after seeing his friends murdered. He realises why she's bringing this up now soon enough. "There's something new, isn't there?"

"Yes, someone has come forward and told me some stories." She shakes her head. "Come outside, I need a cigarette."

He follows her and each step he takes feels closer to impending doom. Gone is that initial annoyance at being brought into the station for yet another day, and in its replacement is white-hot dread. She lights a cigarette impatiently and starts sucking on it.

"Pete told me you bullied Frank," she tells him.

He frowns. This doesn't make sense. Sure, she hasn't known this truth until now and he wants to strangle Pete for letting her in on it, but so what? People are bullied on a daily basis and while he's not proud of what he did by standing back and letting it happen, this can't be worthy of any charges. Mikey isn't the one who picked up that gun and decided to commit multiple homicides.

Upon noticing his bafflement, she continues, "He said you told Frank to do it."

"To do what?" He still isn't catching on. This is like yet another bad dream. Alicia's stare hardens.

"To kill all your friends," she remarks. The comment is like a whip to his cheek. This traitor, this wicked man he loves to death.

He could cry. Isn't it bad enough he's already lost so much?

"I never wanted any of this!" His sudden outburst surprises neither of them. "Pete's lying! You know what he's like, he's a manipulative snake who gets off on twisting people's opinions and toying with their emotional wellbeing. I never knew Frank would do what he did and it's Pete who's being charged as some sort of accomplice here, not me—"

"His father called in this morning," Alicia interrupts him and his words die in his constricting throat, "and said you broke into his house last night."

Damn it! Why did he think everything might be alright for once? He supposes he had this coming. Mr Wentz doesn't know him and he had every right to report the crime, so Mikey can't blame him. He is, however, at a loss for words. "I..."

"This is a serious allegation," Alicia says angrily.

"What did he say?" Mikey chokes out.

She replies, "That you were looking for money for Pete's bail. And that it was probably because you didn't want him talking."

"Talking about what? I've done nothing wrong regarding the shooting!" He wants to rip his hair from his scalp. Everything is unraveling so fast and none of it makes sense. He just hopes she isn't buying any of the lies. "Everything I've ever confessed - Jesus, you saw the marks he left on me. You saw the footage of the notebook in his locker and you've heard my statements and you - you accuse me of what, encouraging someone to violently slaughter my friends?"

"I'm not accusing you," she says calmly, "the Wentz family are. Remember we had this discussion about wealth and influence?" Yes, he remembers. This is America and it will always be this unfair. "They might not bail their son out of jail for the sake of their own image and pockets, but also because they are happy to leave him in there and let him blab about whatever he wants to reduce his sentence - and they will side with him against you, the stranger in his bed, always."

"What do you mean they won't bail him out? I saw the money," Mikey is quick to counter.

"Pete's parents have outright refused to get involved in this stage. Whatever you saw, it was intended for bailing him out." Alicia's tone is resolute. It only adds to the confusion of everything. What the hell was that for in the file cabinet, then? Why was it labelled with Pete's name? He ignores that issue for now and continues with his hysterical prattling.

"It was Frank," Mikey freaks, feeling a rising hatred for everyone apart from himself, "and I get it, you can't do anything about that—"

"Those parents are grieving, Mikey! And no matter what, to learn that you did indeed harass Frank Iero - because you're not denying it - is a huge deal to them, one that they don't take kindly. And the breaking and entering! I thought you knew better by now. So it's just us against the world."

The cogs in his brain stop functioning then at the mention of 'us'. So she's on his side. That's good; the world can be crashing and burning around them, and it is, as long as she doesn't believe Pete's lies. As long as he has one player on Team Mikey, someone rooting for him for once in his miserable life.

"Pete's trial has been set for this month," Alicia declares, "you will be the primary witness. They'll bring up images of the abuse and ask you questions about his involvement with the shooting. We have to prepare you for that, and for whatever accusations will be thrown your way too."

"I can't do this," Mikey wheezes, reminded of when the two of them first met and he said the exact same thing - that he couldn't and wouldn't talk to her about any of it. He did, and look where it got him.

"You love him," Alicia says and it's no question. She sees right through him because he's that weak and easy to read. He just nods. "Like I've always said, I know this will be hard on you. We'll get a good team behind you, a good lawyer. You were also a minor on the date of the shooting and that will bode well for your case."

"I don't want a case," he refuses, "I don't want any of this." Stupid, reckless boy. He's gone off the deep end and destroyed the happiness from his own life and so many others'.

"There is an alternative that gets you out of this." At those words, Mikey's head snaps up. "You plead to go to a mental health institution."

"A crazy house?" he cries.

God, he might be delusional inside his own head sometimes but none of his actions have been due to any diagnosed mental health issues or dangerous personality traits. How can anyone call his impressionable young mind clinically insane?

"No, of course not! It's just therapy, really, and you have free accommodation. It's obvious to anyone you're struggling with these negative feelings," she soothes and he huffs a sigh of disbelief, "and if they can prove that on a few tests, you'll get treatment for no more than four months."

'Negative feelings'. Now she really is turning into his shrink. She knows of how down he's been in the past but he's trying to turn a new leaf, right? He might be blinded by love for Pete but that can change, especially with what he's heard today.

"No," he grits out.

"Aren't you listening? It's this or court!" She starts to get worried that he won't make the right decision. "You know what they do to guys like you in prison?"

"Prison? Who said anything about prison?" He starts to really panic. "They're silly charges. You don't believe Pete, I know you don't. And the breaking and entering thing was a tiny dent in a car crash of illegal things that have been happening around here this year. I'll find a way out of this. Sure, there's security footage at the school of the bullying but - but who cares? It was Frank and they'll blame it on him and—"

"And then what? I'm trying to help you, Michael," she stresses his name and he flinches, "but I don't think you realise how serious this is. Need I show you the tape to prove that you bullied a kid who murdered five people?"

That's a nail in the coffin for Mikey. He can't help but scream back at her, and he rarely so much as raises his voice. This might be the longest conversation they've ever shared but it ends here. She's supposed to help him. His true feelings make themselves known.

"STOP IT!" He cries out. "I didn't lay a FINGER on Frank, ever! This isn't my fault! I don't think you realise how serious I'M being when I say NO! I COULD CARE LESS IF I FACE THE DEATH SENTENCE! I JUST WANT GERARD BACK!"

"WELL, YOU CAN'T GET HIM BACK!" Alicia screams, also getting to her feet and jabbing a finger in his direction. "BECAUSE HE'S DEAD, GODDAMN IT!"

Mikey crumbles to the ground disbelievingly, burying his face in his knees, not realising his cheeks were stained with tears of frustration. Gerard can't be dead. He's seen the news broadcasts, how everyone's saying that he is, but...

This is it. This whole time, this is what he's been putting off: the floodgate opens and it all comes sinking in. For so long he's been in denial about his brother but after eight months and what's being reported, it has to be true. Maybe it's not love for Pete that was holding him together, but rather false hope. Brotherly affection. He just misses him so much and he's never been allowed to even think about it, never had a moment to contemplate the hole in his heart where his brother should be.

He tried to fill in with sex, with alcohol. Dizzy nights out, roasting marshmallows over fires, tripping himself on sidewalks, ignoring his parents and caring for a goldfish that ended up dying like everyone else. He's let himself been taken advantage of in a countless amount of ways. It doesn't matter about how empathetic Patrick's been, how patient Alicia is or how good a kisser his boyfriend can be. At the end of the day, he wants his brother. He loves his brother, and it's the most sure thing he's ever dealt with. The one exception to his mad, reeling emotions.

And they call him dead. They pronounce him gone, like all the good things in his life.

"But - but he's all that I h-have," he chokes out and starts to sob.


	26. Still Don’t Know My Name

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - S i x_

**Present Day - Mikey**

"Right this way." It's astounded Mikey that he's able to drop by to see Pete in jail. For that to happen, Pete must have requested him within a list of visitors - he actually wants to meet. Mikey wasn't going to turn that offer down when he has so many questions for his boyfriend. The guard leads him to the visiting room with its tasteless yellow walls, bland barred windows. He sees Pete waiting at a table in handcuffs.

He looks astonishingly different; his hair is grown out, darker like it's been kept mostly unwashed. His eyes are broody and lack their usual charming sparkle, cast forward like a tiny fish looking into the deepest crevice of the ocean. He's wearing his own clothes but they're wrinkled and one sleeve of his sweater is rolling up to his elbow, revealing some light scratches on his wrist. Probably a nervous tick.

Mikey takes a seat opposite him. There are no glass barriers and the guard lingers back, seeming at ease. Pete has slightly special treatment, then. Of course, it's not like he committed an act of murder himself so they probably aren't all that worried about keeping an eye on him.

"You asked for me," Mikey says softly. He's still looking into the eyes of the man he loves - thinks he loves. Right? Loved, past tense? He isn't sure what to feel as per usual.

"Yeah," says Pete, "I didn't know who else..."

"Patrick?" Mikey suggests and Pete's mouth twitches up at the mention. "Your parents?" He goes on and that gets him a full-blown snort of discontent.

"You're my lover," he explains simply and the word has Mikey blushing like a dumb school boy. He hates that the older boy still has this effect on him; he would probably jump off a bridge for Pete if he asked.

But Pete's expression crumbles under its facade, revealing the true intentions behind summoning Mikey to visit him. His lips set themselves in a straight line. "You've been talking about me - a lot."

"You've been talking about me," Mikey retorts but knows it isn't nearly as bad on his behalf. His voice grows small. "I broke into your house."

That barely catches Pete's attention like it doesn't shock him in the slightest. Maybe he already knew; maybe word got out or his father contacted him. Maybe he's not as alone in here as Mikey presumes him to be.

Mikey clears his throat and continues anyway, "I was looking for money for your bail. I guess your family already had that covered, though..." He thinks back to the file cabinet and the note labelled 'Pete' but how Alicia said his parents refused to bail him out. It makes no sense.

"My family don't give two craps about me," Pete grumbles, "any money you found wasn't for me."

"It had your name on it," Mikey argues, hesitant.

"What did?" The chain on Pete's handcuffs strains as he moves his hands.

"In the office file cabinet," Mikey says dumbly, "stacks of bills wrapped with elastic ties. There had to be at least tens of thousands in there."

Realisation flutters over Pete's otherwise blank face. "That's bribe money, kid."

Kid? Mikey pretends that doesn't sting. It doesn't hurt half as bad as the punches he got dealt being in this relationship. He hates being treated like a braindead animal but he has to keep asking questions; has to get to the bottom of this. "Bribe money for what? Why are you telling me this?" There are people watching through cameras, listening to their every word in here.

"My parents wanted me to go to college," Pete explains slowly like he really is talking to an idiot, "some of the money was for me to start over in an Ivy League school if I could pull my grades up. If I didn't..."

"Then the rest was for the colleges themselves." He was going to obtain an illegal place at some college with that money, and for what? Is higher education really so important?

"You know how important my family's reputation is." Another clink of metal on the table as he moves. "They didn't want me going to Chicago."

"They hate your band so much?" Mikey jokes.

"They don't hate my music. They hate Patrick."

"Patrick?" The name sits like a bad taste in his mouth all of a sudden. What has this got to do with the sweet boy in the fedora who's been supporting him through this whole mess?

"They wanted me to settle down with some girl," Pete says with a smirk and it's undoubtably sadistic, "any girl. Just not him. They knew he was important to me - too much so. Still, better they know of what I've been doing to him than what I've been doing to you."

"Tell me you didn't hurt him." He doesn't understand anything but the terror rising in his chest at the change of atmosphere.

"I wouldn't. Not unless he asked me to." Pete licks his lips, eagerly awaiting the boy's reaction.

Mikey stops for a beat, trying to piece it together. "You've... you've been with Patrick. This whole time?" His world shatters for the millionth time this year. Patrick couldn't have agreed to it; it had to have been nonconsensual.

Pete doesn't hold back. "Since I met him. It was a casual thing, we knew that - until it wasn't. That boy is in love with me, I can tell. I was going to go to Chicago to chase after the feeling for a little longer and my parents didn't want this out in the open, of course. I had my fun with you, too, though that had to be a secret because of the slight age difference and, well, the marks I left on your pretty pale skin."

Mikey could throw up. "Pete," he says, unsure of what he wants to hear. He wants to leave.

"Oh, Patrick's a lot better in bed than you. I was mad at first that you wouldn't put out but I always had him. He tried to distance himself from me, do the right and noble thing and back off while I had my eyes set on you at the same time... but I fooled him just like I fool everyone else. It feels good to have people wrapped around your finger like that."

Patrick's been sleeping with Pete this whole time. Patrick's in love with Pete, his best friend. The one he's now desperate to run away from. The one who's ruined them both.

Pete taunts him, "I wanted to hear it one time from you, those three words that tied you to me forever. I could have taken them if I had just a little more time." His eyes darken into a fiery pit. "Then you turned me in. Like the wretched, weak, quivering scum of the earth. I suppose I was glad you weren't so attached to me by then because what would I say when I ran away to Chicago without you? What lies could I spin that would prevent you from speaking out against the crimes I've committed?"

"They can hear you," Mikey strains behind tears, glancing at the guard whose ear is trained on them.

Patrick had said to Mikey that there were so many things he didn't know, but it was Mikey who knew nothing. Who sat oblivious in Pete's bird cage, and his wings weren't broken; they were sliced off. He sees it now.

"Let them. Let's face it: thanks to you, I'm done for. I'll rot in here remembering your face and what you've done to me." He reaches forward with scorn and Mikey pulls back, deathly afraid. The guard takes a step in their direction, ready to break up their contact. Like they're breaking their entire relationship which was built on lies and abuse.

"What I've done to you?" Mikey echoes in disbelief. "Look what you've done to me! I went through hell and you took advantage of that, you - you were going to let me die in that shooting because you knew - you knew about Frank and you didn't care, and it was what, some sort of miracle that I came out alive? And you thought you'd just kill me in some other way, by crushing my soul. Making me trust you then spitting in my face while you cheated on me with Patrick."

Patrick, who's desperate to get out of town. No wonder. He must see Pete's true colours like Mikey is staring down now.

"Don't pretend you didn't like it," coos Pete with a nibble of his lips, excited to wind the kid up, "you wanted it so bad that first time, when I got you so drunk you couldn't remember your name and fu—"

"No," Mikey denies, his head spinning. He can't breathe. Everything was a mistake.

"So impressionable. Such an easy target that fell straight into my arms." The abuser narrows his eyes, considering his prey before him with something akin to pride. "I'm sure glad that Frank spared your life. God, I made good work out of you. It was almost worth it." I ruined you, are the words that go unsaid but weigh a ton between them.

Mikey stands, and the miracle is that he's able to stay on his own two feet. He looks to the guard who's been listening in the whole time, making mental notes. He says with a tremor, "I'd like to leave now."

>

**Present Day - Frank**

"Gonna take off all my skin, tear apart all of my insides. When they rifle in, mom and dad think you'll be saved. They never had the time; they're gonna medicate your lives. You were always born a crime. We salute you in your grave. Can't find my way home but it's through you and I know..."

"Gee?" I reach out a hand and half-open one eye.

All we do lately is sleep and mope around. I can tell he's starting to miss the outside world more than ever, simple pleasures like going out for dinner or seeing a movie. Even school, where he's supposed to be attending his senior year and making memories to last a lifetime, going to prom and picking out colleges - he'll never be able to do any of it now. He knows it and rarely do I witness a smile on his lips.

"You usually sleep through it," he mumbles, referring to his singing. His voice wavers and cracks and the first tear falls.

Crying, too. There's more of that. I would blame it on the hormones of a teenager and with everything he's been through, he has a lot to cry about - but Gerard's always been strong. He tends to keep his cool and not react too emotionally unless something is really wrong, like he's really hurt.

Suddenly it's four in the morning and Gerard is stuttering out that he feels like there's a hole in his stomach, gasping for air and clutching me like I'm his lifeline.

"Why does it always hurt so bad?" He almost crushes the bones of my hand with his, scrunching up his face in torment. I know the feeling; it's the same one I felt in the car after running out to get my cigarettes. I don't know what to tell him because I have no idea.

"Ray must have painkillers somewhere," he grits out, panting heavily. I nod and go to the kitchen to search for them.

I sift through the contents of the cupboards, all the drawers, in the living room too, and I'm devastated to find none. I want to help him but there's nothing I can do for either of us. Anger takes hold of my body and I bang my fists on the table, uncaring if it wakes anybody else in the house up.

I go back to our bedroom and see he's messed up the bed; one corner of the sheet is hanging off the mattress and a couple of pillows are dispersed over the floor. His sweat clings to the thin duvet and when he looks at me, it's desperate. "Did you find any?" Gerard asks eagerly.

"I'm sorry, Gee." I shake my head and he visibly deflates, fisting the sheets in his white knuckles. There's that small pool of blood below him again, having reappeared since last time we washed the bedding. I'm starting to have a really, really bad feeling about this. I take a seat next to him.

In the months I've known him, he's come to know me better than I know myself. In fact, he sees right through me, past my flaws and walls and tendencies to be an abusive prick, deep enough to find something to love. God only knows what that is. What I care about is that he's here by some twisted coincidences and he hasn't left me, and that he says he would never. I too, somebody who thought they'd never be capable of a shred of empathy toward another human being, have fallen beautifully and catastrophically in love.

So I decide I can't wait anymore.

"How much do you love me?" I whisper into the dark.

He answers immediately. "I would die for you."

I sure hope he never does. The red spills across the bed like a silk cloth, spotting in places, reminding me that whatever sickness this is or however it will end, I just want to hold him. Forever.

"No matter what's going on, you'll stay? You'll be with me in the future - nobody else?"

He wipes the sheen from his forehead and attempts a smile. It looks out of place and forced, otherworldly like he's distracted too much by his own thoughts and pain. Even like this, he's beautiful; the slope of his nose to his chin, crescent-shaped dimples. His small teeth in his mouth, biting over his lip when he holds in laughter. He's the bridge between my life and death. He replies with one word:

"Always."

Does he understand what it would do to me if this were a lie? If he's doing it to appease me, as some masterplan to run away and escape... No. No, I have to stop thinking about that.

I'm letting my paranoia get the best of me. "Is always just today, or is always years to come?"

"Always is forever, Frankie."

Yeah. I can do forever.

"Good, because I'll always love you."

In the morning when he finally drifts off to sleep, brown blood crusted underneath us and the pain fading for a brief, pleasant moment, I step into the kitchen. It's early - the sun hasn't risen - but I'm surprised to see I've got company. Ray. Just the guy I wanted to speak to about this.

"We should talk," I say. Ray's eyes watch the door as if afraid someone will listen in and it's a very private conversation. Honestly, I don't mind.

"About what?"

"Marriage," I blurt out. He doesn't move, perplexed.

"What about it?" The words out of his mouth irritate me so much sometimes. I force the metaphorical steam back in my ears and decide to spell it out for him in more detail.

"I want to marry him," I declare. It takes him more than a second to react this time.

Ray leans against the counter, his gaze once again fleeting to the door to confirm Gerard isn't there. "Frank, this is most stupid thing you've ever suggested."

I awkwardly scratch the back of my head. My hair's getting too long. "Yeah, but... what do you think?"

"You're going to marry him." He deadpans as if it's the punchline to a bad joke. "You're going to propose to a man you kidnapped, beat up, waterboarded, and met not even six months ago."

It's been, like, almost nine months. Does he have any concept of time or am I delusional, another side effect of whatever the hell is going on with me?

"That's the plan." I say dumbly.

He stares at me like I've grown two heads. "As your friend, I'm saying I think you need to check yourself in."

"What?" I frown in confusion.

"Well, to a nuthouse, of course, and only for the rest of your life - because you've completely lost it."

Can't he just be supportive for once? I would never judge him. He knows how in love I am with Gerard and hell, you only live once. I might not get the perfect opportunity to pop the question in normal circumstances but I'm making the most of what I've got.

"Come on," I sigh, "I know you don't understand a lot of—"

"First of all, let's deal with the legal proceedings. 'You're filing for marriage? What's your name? Oh, I'm sorry? You're a presumed-dead psycho who murdered five people and now wishes to wed your impressionable kidnap victim?'"

"He's not impressionable," I snap.

"That's all you got out of that?"

Okay, I see a point in his logic. Maybe it wouldn't have to be a real wedding though, just a fantastical blip in our routine that means I get down on one knee and Gerard ends up wearing a ring. Just an engagement will suffice for now. It's never going to be the traditional wedding we could hope for because of the circumstances, of course.

"I don't know why I'm even telling you this." I roll my eyes.

He suddenly slams a hand down on the table. "Goddamn it, Frank, can't you see this is ludicrous? What do you expect will happen after - God forbid - Gerard agrees to marry you? Will you run off into the sunset together?"

I wish. But what would be so bad about him saying yes? Jesus, it used to be us against the world but now he's getting on my last nerve. For all the crap he's given me over the time we've known each other, I would expect at least a fake attempt at delight.

"What's going on in here?" Bob saunters into the room. Great - exactly what I need right now. This may as well be a full-blown intervention.

"The moron before us was going to buy an engagement ring if he hadn't ran into me on the way out."

"That's not true!" I do value his opinions despite what he thinks. I wouldn't just run away and act on impulse without thinking about it and asking about it some more first.

"For Gerard?" Bob asks incredulously. "That's messed up. Seriously, how do you know he'll say yes? You've known him a very limited amount of time; not to mention your relationship is actually illegal."

It's illegal because I kidnapped him, right. And because I should be in jail for a few other reasons. And because everyone will tell me he has Stockholm Syndrome.

"He'll be eighteen next April so clearly nothing's going to happen until at least then." I point out the obvious. "And I wasn't asking for your permission... actually." I mock him.

Bob glares at me for a while before, to everyone's shock, he shrugs and says, "Whatever. Just do it."

"Bob?" Ray's mouth hangs open.

Bob Bryar is supposed to loathe me, and openly disapprove of my relationship with Gerard. Instead, he's showing me that not only is he suddenly, magically okay with it, but now he's on board the holy matrimony ship.

He fetches himself a glass of tap water, pretending like what I've said isn't a rash decision. Maybe he just wants to watch me crash and burn; maybe because he's travelled and seen a bit of the world, he knows how fleeting everything is.

"Frank..." He gives me a strange, unreadable look and sets down his water. "We can't stop you. With the weird stuff that's been occurring of late, who knows what could happen next? So I can understand the Carpe Diem aspect of what you're trying to go for here, and as long as you're safe and treat Gerard how he deserves to be treated, it's not my place to say no."

"Wh- Seriously?" I stammer with wide eyes.

He is not meant to agree with me. It's almost a trick of reverse psychology, like ignoring a child's tantrum to make them think it doesn't enrage you. And I do act like a crying baby sometimes when I don't get my way - a homicidal one at that.

"Yeah, I'm serious, especially about the last part - make him happy or I'll put that final shot in your gun to good use, understand?"

I nod quickly, not picking up on the fact that for some inexplicable reason, Bob knows how many shots are left in my unconventional weapon.


	27. Waiting On A Car Crash Ending

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - S e v e n_

**Present Day - Frank**

"Frank, what are we doing all the way out here?" Gerard's door swings open as he steps out into the cornfield beside me by the road. "Is this where you'll bury me so they won't find me?"

"Don't joke about that," I rebuke him, trying to cover up how badly my voice is shaking.

We're about ten miles from Ray's house, surrounded by fields of golden crops. Today is the day I decide to do this, to chase after the dream I've wanted for so long and ask him to marry me. It is completely and utterly ridiculous and I won't even be offended if he throws this proposal back in my face and runs for the hills, but the difference now is that I would allow him to feel that outrage. He has every right to say no and I'm not sure what to expect.

It would make all the stars in my own little universe align, maybe make peace in my thoughts. Of course, as Ray pointed out, it wouldn't be an official marriage since that wouldn't be possible to do without coming out of hiding and that can never happen. The notion makes me more than a little remorseful that we met the way we did - when I pointed that gun at his brother and ended up throwing him in a getaway car in chains, resenting and beating him for so long - because maybe I could have taken him on a date. Maybe we could have had a normal life together. I would have liked that.

You can't change the past, though, so here I am, hoping that what I've got in mind is enough. It will be more of a metaphorical gesture, and maybe he'll see that when I buy a ring, it could be a worn as a promise just as much as an eternity together. We don't need white frilly dresses or priests letting us kiss on command, a string quartet in the background or rows and rows of seats for our crappy or non-existent families. It only has to be the two of us now and I hope he'll agree. My uncertainty shows on my face.

Of course he sees right through me. "Frankie?" His fingers intertwine with mine, and I watch our hands together like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

I quickly shake my head and let go of his hand, disappearing into the field to get my emotions under control. I distance myself from him when I see his confusion.

The look on his face is of rejection. "What are you doing?"

"I need to tell you something." I say hesitantly and he stares at me like I'm an alien.

"If you're going to break up with me, there's no need to do it in a cornfield." He snaps.

God, I would never do that, who does he think I am? I just need to come out with it already and stop being so scared. It's meant to be and my worst anticipations aren't going to come true.

"What makes you think I'm going to break up with you?" I cry. "I love you." I want to move to kiss him but find myself rooted to the spot.

Gerard is like a deer caught in headlights, sensing my own dread and projecting it onto himself. I would be terrified if I were him. The sun is up but what's to say I need permission of the dark to do something horrific? Maybe that's what he expects me to do.

"Has someone seen us? Are the cops coming; did Ray or Bob call them?" He blanches and moves back until his back touches the car. "A-Are you letting me go?"

"No!" Damn it, Frank, just say it already!

"Then what is it?" He's really panicking now.

I can't. I can't do it, what if I mess everything up? What if he never forgives me for taking things this step too far? What if he's mad I don't have a diamond ring? No, I know Gerard is not a materialistic person and he'll understand in these circumstances, robbing a jewellery store isn't all that straightforward. But will he understand why I'm asking him this question today?

"I-I love you," I whisper again.

"You're goddamn scaring me!" He yells and kicks his heel against the car. His raven hair whips around his face as wind picks up around us.

As if from a horror movie, there's a whistling of weather in our ears and clouds gather overhead. The corn brushes over itself, a faint rustling that speaks a million words. It bends toward us, eagerly itching us along.

"Gee—" I start to say before he collapses on the ground with no warning. "Gerard!" I rush over to him and help him up, take his arm with the utmost kindness. "What happened?"

He bites into his own shoulder to muffle a pained noise and clutches his stomach, leaning into me for support. I carefully move his hand away before choking out a gasp at the large bloody stain seeping through his shirt. I lift up his clothing but see no wounds.

Why is this happening again? Is this a sign of how wrong this all is, how we shouldn't be together? I am perhaps making a huge mistake and it's too late to go back - I'll pay for my sins and the universe will rip him away from me.

"Frankie, what happened to us?" He sobs into my chest, then we both fall to the ground on our knees.

I wish I knew. I cast my mind back in time but the fogginess of my memory remains, blocking any reasonable explanation. He's probably the same.

"Nothing, I swear. We'll be okay." I rush out and now, I decide, is as good a time as any to say what I need to say, especially considering our position right now is scaring the hell out of me. "Gee, baby, I promise I didn't bring you here to break up with you or otherwise let you go," I explain softly, "haven't I said before I'd never leave you?"

The setting sun turns his lashes gold and his eyes the colour of caramel. They meet mine confusedly. God, he looks like an angel.

I cup his beautiful face with my hands. "I don't know why you don't hate me - since we met, I've done awful things to you, but you've forgiven me. I don't deserve your forgiveness or empathy, but like I said, I'm far too selfish to ever let you go. In fact, I want to be with you... forever.

"I know we've moved too fast but I can't help myself because, as tacky as this sounds, I wouldn't ever meet someone like you if I turned the world upside down. I've never found myself once hating that I love you, because it's a damn privilege to love you, and an even greater one that you feel the same way. Whatever's happening to us right now, this... s-sickness that we have," I start to cry and tears already run down his face, "I don't know what it means but - but I want you to understand that I'll always stay with you, and it's because we don't know what will happen that I'm telling you this now while I'm sure I still can."

"Frank," he says quietly.

I could listen to him say my name all day but now I need to get this off my chest while I'm not too petrified to say it. He's clinging on my every word like a dying man asking for a cure, like I'm someone who has something worth to say - like he'd listen to me above all others because he loves me. I need to stop mumbling around my point.

"W-wait, I - I'm sorry; I'm bad with words, you know? I turn to mush around you." My cheeks flame red. "I never want anyone else, Gee, only you, from the Earth to the morgue. We could be happy! If you'd let me, I'd wake you up every morning with breakfast in bed and a kiss and we could run away anytime you want, and go anywhere, and you could sing and I'd buy you, like, six boxes of pencils and-"

"Frank," he says again, laughing between his tears, momentarily cutting off my rambling. He doesn't know what else to say.

"-and when you fall asleep, I'll cover you in a blanket and wrap my arms around you and just - just sleep with you, beneath the stars, and I'll give you the whole damn world or take it on my shoulders even if I can't hold it all, and I'll miss you whenever you're not with me because I-" I can barely speak. "I can't imagine this world without you, and it's ugly, it's so ugly, but you're beautiful to me. You saved my life, Gerard Way - if it weren't for you, I'd have used that shotgun on myself. I don't know what kind of dream we're living in but I never want to wake up. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

He gives me a look that swallows my heart.

"We could have been that old couple on the porch, you know, swinging on their wooden bench and staring out into the gardens they've planted. Hand in hand like overly-sentimental lovers, thinking back to the life they created together." I want that still, so bad. My voice soothes his worry. "I used to think it would tear me apart to fall into that sappy routine but I can think of no better thing now and you know why that is? It's because you're my soulmate. Crazy, right? There must be no such thing but it's the most real feeling I've ever had."

"What's this speech for?" Gerard has lost his concern and now only waits for what's next.

"Marry me," I blurt out, taking his hands.

His mouth moves but he doesn't speak.

"I don't have a ring," I throw in, "and I know it's the most messed up thing and we'd have to kind of do it illegally or not in the proper fashion at all but—" I take a deep breath and try again, pleading. "The purpose remains the same. Marry me. Say yes."

For a while, the only sound is the cutting of the breeze into the corn, and I'm so nervous I don't see the happiest smile he's ever smiled on his lips.

"I'm such an idiot for saying this," he sighs.

"What?"

Did I do well? This isn't just any old crap spewing from my mouth, it's all those stubborn feelings I kept back making their way forth from my heart. He sees my heart like I wear it on the outside, a living breathing organ for him to hold, forever.

"Yes."

"Yes what?" I ask dumbly.

"Yes!" He bursts into laughter then hugs me in a way that speaks for itself. "Yes, I'll marry you."

Now it's my turn to be silent for a beat, before I leap to the opportunity and crash our lips together like a storm meeting the shore. Behind my closed eyelids, I think I might begin to understand God.

Chew on that, Ray. I kiss the hell out of my Gerard. "I'll make you the happiest person who ever lived, I promise."

>

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey calls Patrick to meet up a few days after he sees Pete. Wringing his hands for hours on end, pacing up and down his room staring at the spot Joe's tank used to sit is driving him insane. Thinking is driving him insane. He needs to act before he chickens out.

A silver Mazda pulls up outside his house, the beaming colour doing well to reflect the tiny pieces of snow that have begun to fall. The temperature has dipped to freezing point and while it's not a blizzard, there is a soft white rug that starts to flutter onto the sidewalks. Patrick steps out of the backseat of the car, thanking whoever drove him here - probably a functional parent - with a pleasant smile.

Mikey goes right up to him when the vehicle moves off, resisting the urge to push him into the snow. "You've been sleeping with Pete," he accuses him, hurt.

Patrick's face flashes with undeniable remorse. "Yeah. I'm..." He clears his throat and tries again. "I'm so sorry, Miko."

Mikey hates that he feels bad for Patrick even now and he hates that nickname even more. "Just don't," he snaps, "you know what's really messed up? I almost wished that it had been against your will so that at least I could blame Pete alone. At least then it wouldn't be your fault and I wouldn't be losing another friend."

Patrick steps back like he's been burned. He wobbles a bit on a patch of ice but Mikey doesn't reach out a hand to help steady him. Mikey's tried to be the good guy; he tried to overlook this and make excuses but he can't anymore.

"I've lost so much, Patrick! My friends are dead, Joe is - Joe is dead," he stammers out, and this is the first time Patrick has heard this and his gasp is pained. "My boyfriend ruined my life," Mikey continues, fighting down the emotions that struggle to overwhelm him, "and Gerard is—"

"I know," Patrick says, "and I'm sorry. No kid deserves that."

"I'm not a damn kid!" He really does push the guy then, but nobody falls to the ground. They hold their composure by a thread. Mikey rants on, "Pete told me everything. How his parents knew how close the two of you were and how they planned to bribe him not to go to Chicago with you, but I guess you got off lucky since he's going to be locked up anyway, right? Then you can carry on pretending this is all fine, like I didn't have my heart broken and you didn't lie to my face for months. What I don't get is why I was the side piece - I was in a relationship with him, albeit a secret one, while I lived in his bed and you were the one sneaking around."

"I don't pretend to understand Pete," Patrick confesses with a frown, "I know he's not a good person. I know he's done bad things and maybe - maybe he doesn't tell me all of it because he doesn't want me to run away, because he doesn't want to be alone." He looks up at Mikey. "You're different. I know you're in love with him too but he doesn't care for you; you were a project that fizzed out when he got arrested. You were the dead end, the kid - and you are a kid, to us - who was always going to be left behind in Belleville. I asked if you wanted to come with me to Chicago not because I wanted to replace Pete but because you deserved the chance to turn your life around. Yes, I love Pete and that's why I've been chasing him around like a lost puppy all this time but I get it now that he's on a separate path to us, one that ends up in a bad place. I'm letting him go. You can hate me all you want but I recommend you do the same."

Patrick turns to storm off but Mikey grabs his wrist, tugging him back. "Are you kidding? You don't mean all of that. If it were true, then this entire thing - the last eight or so months of my life - have been for nothing." He can't handle that.

Patrick shrugs, looking small. "I don't know. I guess it was. I'm just glad that the bad guy in all of this is in a cell, and he won't be getting out anytime soon. I owe that to you, so thank you. Maybe I can get on with loving someone who deserves it now."

"I still love him," Mikey sighs out with a newfound bitterness and confusion, "I don't know how I possibly could. How are you supposed to just turn that off?"

"I'm not turning it off," says Patrick, "I'm just trying to forget about it."

He makes it sound easy. Mikey lets go of the boy's wrist and Patrick leaves, happy to walk back home in the cold and snow - anything to get away from Mikey. Mikey rubs his glasses, thinking they've steamed up somehow since his vision is blurring, but is taken aback to find it's his tears that are the problem. Through all of it, this is one of the things that's hurt him the most. That wasn't a decent apology at all.

The trial is the next day. Mikey stands in as a witness and shares with the court the events of his year, starting with the older boy he met after a school shooting who took him under his wing, the protection and blissful ignorance he was offered. Mikey tells the court that he pushed it all out of his mind, the drunken sex, the mistakes, the worst and best days of his life. Because there were good days, and that doesn't prove he has a lot to learn but rather he's endured a rollercoaster of a relationship that spanned seasons, and ended up dying out like the gentle warmth of summer.

Pete listens to the boy, expecting to hear about love. He doesn't get to. Mikey doesn't mention once his darkest secret - the fact that he'll always love Pete even though he shouldn't, even through the awful things that have been done to him - because the criminal doesn't deserve that satisfaction. He can rot in prison and in hell for the mind games he's played on Mikey who at the end of the day, is still a stupid impressionable child. Still that broken bird in the cage, singing for someone to gift him new wings.

They take out the evidence - photos of the abuse, the video of the notebook in Pete's locker. It's cited as not belonging to him but they take it out to show everyone, to read out the names on that first page that Pete kept hidden from the world, ready to see them die. Except he never showed up the day of the shooting, but stayed at home, expecting the catastrophic news to come flooding in. The security guard who accompanied Mikey's visit in jail tells of what he overheard and the case becomes stronger and stronger against the villain in the courtroom.

Alicia talks. She talks a lot about Mikey and what he's been through and Mikey couldn't be more grateful that he has this one person in his life he trusts completely, and maybe even calls a friend in an odd way. She kept her promise to see things were made right, and Mikey is glad he put his faith in a real adult with the necessary skills and profession to bring about the justice they've been craving. It's an uneven fight and they know they've won before there's even a verdict.

Pete Wentz gets a fifteen year sentence, and Mikey Way is finally free.


	28. Revenge Served Sweet

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - E i g h t_

**Present Day - Frank**

Gerard and I go back home hand-in-hand and our lips chasing each other. He tells me he's going to get some food and leaves me smiling after him.

Nothing could ever wipe this smile off of my face. I promised him I would make him the happiest person who ever lived but the nice side-effect is that I'm even happier. There's a weight lifted off my shoulders and no longer do I worry about the blood on the sheets, our pains and heartaches. This moment is so good I have to let myself be caught up and consumed in it.

"So you actually did it," Bob's voice comes from the living room, and I wander in to find him with a cigarette on the sofa.

It looks like one of mine but I choose to let that slide. Nothing is spoiling my good mood and he can steal all my cigs, even my favourite Marlboros, if he stays off Gerard's back and supports me. He looks like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing with it, taking the chemicals into his mouth but not inhaling, just sifting them back out through his nose, like he isn't smoking for the nicotine but rather for the dramatic effect.

"Ray will kill you for smoking in here." I say but he only laughs; not usual laughter but the manic type, as if there's something I should be worried about. I choose to ignore it. "And yeah, I did it. He said yes."

"Of course he did," Bob rolls his eyes, "he's blindly in love with you."

What's wrong with that? Love is blindness.

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

He clutches the arm of his seat in unease, taking another pointless drag of his smoke. He loves his tricks and games, I can tell, and I have to admit he's good because I have no idea what he's getting at or what he'll say next.

"You know, Frank, as soon as I heard of your marital plannings," he says, his tone changing to something I can't decipher, "unfortunately, I thought, 'damn it, I'm going to have to do this sooner than I expected'. It's gone too far with you two."

"What are you talking about?" I scoff.

I feel that weird feeling in my stomach again except it's not just butterflies of nervousness or the intense pain of an invisible wound, but images of spiders in my gut spinning their webs and tickling my soul.

He watches for my reaction intently. "Notice that Ray's not around?"

I frown and realise he's right. I haven't seen him.

I was too busy sharing my time with Gerard and he didn't say anything about the curly-haired man either. We just got engaged, technically, and I thought nothing would break us out of that dreamlike state. We've already entered the honeymoon phase and didn't realise who is - or isn't - around us.

Bob puts out his cigarette and says casually, "that's because he's knocked out and tied up in the trunk of my car."

The spiders catch their first flies.

My breath catches in my throat as everything suddenly screams 'danger' at me. I instinctively move toward the door to the kitchen, for a knife, maybe, but mostly to protect Gerard.

He's getting food and has no idea this is happening and I desperately don't want him to, but I promised I would always protect him. I thought it would be from the cops or Ray's judgement or the harsh words on the news, but never from the harm of a person in the house we live in.

"I have to admit, I thought it'd be more of a challenge to get you to trust me." Bob continues, and he pulls out my shotgun from underneath the couch, swinging it over his shoulder. "Now, I don't have to shoot your fiancé to get you in the car, do I?"

I stop moving at the doorway of the kitchen and Gerard doesn't notice. He's humming softly to himself, spreading jam on his toast, his back turned to me - oblivious. I edge along the counter toward the knives, clearing my throat so he'll hear me.

Look at me, please, look at me. But don't make it obvious. Save yourself. He doesn't react with enough sharp intelligence but rather lets his unexpected fear get the better of him.

Gerard turns and frowns at my distressed expression, then when his eyes land on Bob with the gun, he drops his knife. "B-Bob?"

Bob lunges for us.

He might shoot us, with all his words out in the open now. God knows what his intentions are with Ray, the guy he calls his best friend; never mind with us. He's always hated my guts and knew I never trusted him and maybe it was a mistake to get on his bad side with all my arrogance. I think I see Gerard mouthing my name.

I make a grab for the knives but before I can reach them, the butt of the gun comes into contact with my head and I fall unconscious onto the kitchen floor.

>

Of course these handcuffs would come back to bite me. Maybe it's Bob's idea of a sick joke, cuffing me to the handle in the inside of a car door, like I did to Gerard. He's in much the same predicament beside me.

I pull on the chains, rattling them to no avail. Panic churns in me like a fast-burning disease. I'm not brave enough to break my thumbs to escape these restraints, and not sure enough to know I wouldn't pass out while doing so. Besides, I have no advantage of the upper-hand here.

"You finally woke up, huh?" Bob muses from the driver's seat. "Your boy-toy has a big mouth so I put a sock in it. Clean, of course."

Gerard is gagged and ropes bind his wrists. His eyes are red but there are no tear stains on his face.

It is a literal sock. How poetic. I look him up and down, nervous in case something's happened while I was out. What the hell is going on? It does no good to gag anyone when you're out in the middle of nowhere, where nobody will hear your screams. Suddenly being in hiding is the worst idea in the world. We're fending for ourselves, for our own lives.

"It's a shame because he didn't do anything to deserve this. Of course, he's quite literally going to be in a better place if everything goes according to plan." Bob says.

Plan? He intended to do this, deliberately and not on impulse? That makes it that much more dangerous. I wonder what he could possibly have in mind. If Gerard doesn't deserve this, then I pray he at least lets him go and takes out his problems on me alone.

"Where are we going?" I ask calmly, noting he has my weapon at his feet.

He toes with it teasingly after seeing my gaze, proving he's in charge and I can do nothing about it. His other foot is steady on the gas, no speeding or swerving; he's just taking a calm drive like he has all the time in the world.

"To pay a visit to some very angry people. You did kill them, after all."

"You're insane."

"Oh no, Frank, I'm just getting my sweet revenge." He pulls up at a familiar graveyard and I find myself losing it, panicking and tugging at my restraints.

There's no way we're here. He would've travelled hundreds of miles and for me to be unconscious nearly the entire time, he would have had to hit me a lot harder than he did. How does he even know this place exists? We're in an entirely different state, a destination I never shared in conversation with him. Does he know this is where my parents are buried?

Bob takes the shotgun and gets Ray out of the trunk, tearing off his restraints, then he yanks Gerard out of the car to do the same.

"Don't touch him!" I yell and go out after them.

Ray puts a hand on my shoulder to hold me back and says in a quivering voice, "Don't, Frank. There's nothing you can do."

Hell if there's nothing I can do. It's my fault we're in this whole mess so Bob doesn't have to lay a finger on Gerard. He said it himself: Gerard doesn't deserve any of this. I feel my heart breaking a thousand times over as I once again consider the normal life we could have had. Bob is a little gentler removing his gag.

He points the gun at us and nods to the cemetery gates. "You should know your way around here," he hints at me, quickly unlocking my cuffs.

I want to use this opportunity to deck him in the face - I know I could probably take him - but the shotgun, my shotgun, is a powerful reason not to try anything dumb. If we can just remain calm and think one or two moves ahead, it doesn't have to be the end of the world. So I cooperate.

I lead the way and rub my sore wrists, my arms securely around Gerard, focusing on nothing more than getting him away from the psychopath who's betrayed us.

"If Gerard doesn't deserve this," I grit out, "why is he here?"

"Have some patience. I have a reason for everything I do." Bob smiles cruelly. "Trust me."

"I've never trusted you," I snarl with the utmost honesty and Ray makes a slight noise of agreement with me on that point.

"I'm just teasing. We're nearly there, right?" Bob knows exactly where we're going, I know it, but this is another stupid game we're forced to partake in. I almost walk straight past where we're supposed to be.

"Stop here." Bob motions to my parents' grave where I stop and to my surprise, there are some people in the distance, staring off into space. I can't see their faces.

I go to move away, nervous they'll recognise us from the news or will be working with the cops, wondering if this is a setup. Maybe Bob's been an FBI agent this entire time or maybe he's bargaining to be let off the hook for the whole girl drama with Ray by turning me in. Somehow I know things aren't going to be so uncomplicated, though.

The end of the gun jams into my back, forcing me to stay put. I fight back an animalistic growl as I keep my grip on Gerard who's deadly silent.

"I suppose I better explain, then," Bob's lips twist into a smirk, "I came to Ray, knowing fully well for a while that he was still around, with the intention of lying to you that I had forgiven and forgotten everything. Knowing that you had recently shown up, Frank, it made it a lot easier to bring down two bad people at once. Truth be told, you both did unforgivable things, and you're going to rightfully suffer for it."

He's right; I have done unforgivable things. But it's none of his business, and he's not God - he can't play around with people's lives and torture them.

The people in the distance are walking toward us, and their faces blur into something more recognisable. There are five of them, and I know them all too well.

Those are the kids I murdered.

That's impossible. Alan, Teri, Leon, Darren and Marcos. I must be hallucinating because I saw the life drain from their eyes when I shot them. This whole thing feels like a staged nightmare.

"I - I shot them. Dead." I stutter out, holding Gerard closer, who is trembling against my chest.

"Come on, Frank, can't you add two and two? How could you explain the fact that you've bled for no reason, you feel tired, distant and torn from your physical touch? You saw things you shouldn't have logically seen. You started to lose parts of your memory; you felt like you nearly died the other day when your stomach wouldn't stop hurting," Bob chuckles darkly, "like there was a hole in it."

I can only shake my head, lost for words and honestly terrified.

The hole. He's right, I have felt that hole. That gap in my body like a bullet had torn right through it, through all layers of my skin and muscle and bone and - everything. The pain was everywhere.

"Nobody could see you," he continues, and I rack my brain to prove him wrong. But the times when I shoplifted, neither of the employees noticed me. The girl behind the counter... it's like I wasn't even there. It's like I didn't exist, like the place I stood was filled with empty air and not a living, breathing person. I can't believe it.

"No," I choke out.

"We're all the same now! All of us here," he gestures to the livid-looking students in front of me, then to himself, Ray, Gerard, me, growing in anger, "have felt something morbidly similar!"

"You're crazy," I snap, "you are goddamn crazy, you know that? You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've really done or felt or am capable of." I face up to him, trying my hand at a brave front. "You'll let us go right now if you know what's good for you."

"You know it's true," Bob hisses into the dark, "against everything you've believed in for all eighteen years of your life, against everything you've ever hoped for with your stupid romance tale - this is how it is now. There's no use denying it or standing up to me. Those kids will grab you if you run."

Teri steps closer. I try to get a good look at his face but there's too much blood, too much despair. I took away his life and yet here he is, standing in front of me. This is no hallucination, no effect of some drug I could've been slipped. Ray and Gerard see them just as clearly as I do and their faces turn sheet-white as they put the pieces of the puzzle together. Bob throws out a hand to us all.

I shut my eyes when he screams the one thing that causes our hearts to plummet to our stomachs.

"We're all goddamn dead!"


	29. Don’t Trust A Dead Man

_C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - N i n e_

**In The Past**

Gerard swings his backpack over his shoulder, confident as the new kid on the block. They've recently moved house right into Belleville, a quiet suburban neighbourhood a bus journey away from most important shops and businesses. It's a change from the city. Maybe this is where he gets a fresh start, beginning middle-school, perhaps making some friends and forgetting about the less-than-perfect home life that surrounds his family.

The eleven-year-old hops onto the bus, glad to be away from his brother this academic year. Mikey can look out for himself and soon enough they'll be older, and can hang out. For now, he wants the independence that comes with turning a new leaf - nobody dragging him down, nothing from his past arising to bite him. He sits at one of the front seats since the back is all occupied, next to a short kid wearing a hat.

"Is it your first day too?" Gerard mumbles to the boy who has his nose stuck in a book he doesn't recognise.

"Yep but it's my second year of middle-school," says the stranger with an anxious sigh as he shuts the book to talk to Gerard. He probably can't concentrate on the chapter now that he's got company. "I'm Patrick Stump."

"Gerard Way. We moved from out of town." He notices Patrick's reading something called 'New Moon' and he has a bookmark with a police car on it. "What's it like here?"

"Kinda sucky. The teachers are nice, especially in music class." Patrick doesn't have much else to add to the matter but he frowns as if remembering something important. "I guess you don't know that usually people stay away from me."

"Why?" Gerard can't imagine why someone as nice at first impressions as Patrick would repel any of the other kids. He seems perfectly harmless and a sweetheart. Gerard can even imagine becoming friends with him, and on his lucky first day too.

Patrick pushes a pair of thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose and says, "My parents are 'Bible freaks'. Or they were until my mom died last Fall, and now it's just my dad. He's hardcore into going to Church like, every day."

"I'm sorry about your mom," says Gerard while he gnaws on his lip, sympathetic but also hoping he won't have to bring up his own disaster of a family, "do you not like going to Church?"

"I don't believe in any of that stuff but don't tell my dad," mumbles Patrick shamefully. It must be a sin in his family to even talk about stuff like this so openly with strangers. Gerard, a non-believer, considers how to comfort the boy.

"Maybe your dad likes Church so much because it makes him feel closer to your mom. Like, if there is a heaven then I'm sure she would be there." It's only natural to grieve the people you've loved and lost, and it must be a difficult time for Patrick and his father still. It was only last Fall that it happened so it'll be fresh in their minds. Everyone deals with it differently and perhaps his dad is only looking to the God he believes in for guidance.

"Dad said people who kill themselves go to hell," Patrick states matter-of-factly.

Gerard resists the urge to cringe. This poor boy - what he must think of his mother, who for all they know could be anywhere or nowhere at all. "But wasn't your mom a good person? I bet she was and she wouldn't deserve to go to hell. Maybe she's an angel and she's watching over you."

Patrick shrugs and shifts around in his seat, trying to get more comfortable during the ride. He stares out the window in dismay. "I don't know. I mean, I guess I'll find out one day when I die - but I don't think anything will happen."

"I think people turn into ghosts," suggests Gerard.

Patrick gives him a weird look, showing Gerard he certainly doesn't concur with that idea. The bus pulls up at school and the kids start clambering out, equally eager and nervous to begin their first day back. The older boy says, "I don't think my dad would be happy if I kept talking to you about all this."

Gerard stands up to let him past and Patrick walks briskly, not looking back. It's the last time he ever spoke to the boy but something tells Gerard that he would grow up and grow out of his dad's belief. To have a dead mother must change your life, and even to believe in such a thing as ghosts could be a comfort. To think that you might join your loved ones in the world of the dead when your time comes.

Hopefully for both of them, that day will be a long way away yet.

>

**Present Day - Frank**

'It' was life.

That thing that ended, that I knew has been over since the day of the shooting. Those feelings I couldn't describe to myself because I didn't know where to target my emotions - I blamed it on my trauma, on our circumstances, on Gerard. Now that I've got the explanation for everything, I don't know what to do with it.

There's an incessant ringing in my ears, maybe because I'm trying to block out Bob's words because as sick as it is, I think I know that he's right.

The police shot at Gerard and I as we tried to escape the school months ago. We were both hit in the abdomen, but later at the motel we stopped in, there were no signs of any injuries.

But since then, we've both felt it. We've seen the blood, suffered through the pain. Sometimes I felt like I wasn't really present, like I was disappearing. Suddenly all the signs add up and flashbacks comes crashing onto me.

... To my utter shock, I find the same results as I did on Gerard's side: nothing but a slightly red mark that likely won't even bruise...

... "Frank Iero will not be back as both himself and Gerard Way were pronounced dead the day of the attack."...

... "So pale it's like you've seen a ghost."...

... There's a white light underneath the door of the bathroom...

... "I c-can't remember how I got here."...

... "You were so pale and cold and I didn't know what was happening."...

... "There's some weird stuff going on in this house."...

I never thought something like this could be remotely possible. And it's not just me - it's my Gerard, who's like this too, and Bob and Ray... God, did they actually kill each other? When they brought each other to a state of near-death over a girl... Bob lied when he said they made it out alive. So now Bob's avenging his death as well as the five people I killed. But what does he plan on doing?

How can he do anything to us? Is it only the dead that can see each other? God, this entire time I could have been travelling the world with Gerard, but instead my ignorance landed us in Georgia with a recluse and another kidnapper. We could have shown our faces in public, gone out to those dinners I wanted to do, snuck into movie theatres for dates but without the sneaking - we could have done it plainly in front of everyone because nobody would have ever seen us. But that's because we're not even really there.

Whatever plains exist, we are not on the same ones as the people who are living and growing old. He'll never see Mikey again and that's not for lack of trying but rather because Mikey knows us rightfully to be dead. That news reporter...

"Bob, I said I was sorry and I meant it," Ray whispers, still so shocked that his voice is cracked, "and if it's true that we're all already dead, that's punishment enough."

"No!" Bob snarls. "You and I are going to be stuck here for a very long time, Ray, and I'm making it worth my while."

How long does he mean - eternity? How long do the dead walk the Earth? I would've thought there would be something, anything, more than this reality. A black hole where time moves but you can't move with it. No 'afterlife' because we're stuck in the same life, just without a beating heart. Then how can I feel mine pumping so hard in my chest?

"What about Frank and Gerard?" Ray panics.

He glances at us and shakes his head with squinted eyes. "The light should be here soon to take Gerard away, then Frank will spend eternity here without his soul mate. THAT's punishment enough."

"Light? Soul mate?" I blurt out, nearly screaming.

So many there is more to this than I thought. It's something straight out of a fantasy novel, a realm that exists only in a crazy person's head. The soul mate part really gets to me since it's the very thought I had when asking Gerard to marry me. Maybe I wasn't so far off the deep end after all.

"As soon as you admitted your undying love for each other," Bob explains dramatically, rolling his eyes, "you completed the process of binding your souls. Whether live or dead, this means you can pass through to the other side together through a typical white light."

"How do you know this?" I snap.

"I've been dead for a while, exploring the world until I realised I wasn't truly there. I met some others on the way." He fires back. "Your precious Gerard is a pure soul which means he can pass through to the other side no matter whether you're with him or not. Since you're a sinner," he gestures to the leering faces of the dead around us, "your only shot is with him. But you don't deserve that, Frank - you're sick for what you did to him, and I'm not letting you go with him."

I've reverted back to not believing a single word from this psychopath's mouth. It's all nonsense. There is no 'light' that can take Gerard away, no 'other side' of what we know to be real. It has to be some really dynamic drugs, right?

"Please, Bob," Gerard speaks up, clutching my hand and shaking, on the verge of tears, "I - I love him. I don't want to be without him no matter where I am. Can't we go home and let this go?"

"NO!" He bursts out, "Frank and Ray will be tortured as they DESERVE TO BE!"

After his words, beyond the gravestones between two evergreen pines, a small light begins to flicker. It could be a candle, but it grows bigger and brighter, resembling what I saw underneath the bathroom door, and I soon understand that it's the gateway to another place.

Imagine the fabric of reality folding in from under you, the paths of nature diverging to make room for something that isn't scientifically possible. I'm staring right into the abyss, that perfect escape. It calls for all of us, begging for us to step through. I can hardly resist the urge myself but if what Bob's saying is true, I can't pass through it without Gerard.

Bob's eyes light up and he grins sadistically. "It's time!"

A loud noise resonates throughout the cemetery, the rush of wind that riles up the few scattered leaves left during the depths of winter on the ground. The light becomes impossibly big and closer.

"Frankie, I d-don't want to go!" Gerard shrieks over the deafening noise. He shrinks into my embrace and clutches my shirt. "I don't want to be d-dead!" His voice is shattered.

Dead, dead, dead. The rest of our futures together is turned to dust. All the things I've ever said and done don't matter because as soon as I decided to murder my classmates, I sealed our fate. It's my own fault that I'm here, but I'm also responsible for Gerard. I let him down, so the least I can do is never let him go.

"I promised I'd never let you go, didn't I? We'll always be together, Gee. I love you so much." I hold his face in my hands and it seems to somewhat reassure him because he bites his lip then nods.

"It doesn't matter," he tells me sadly, "any of it! You asking me to marry you, the vision of an old couple on their porch with their hands interlinked. We're never gonna get that, Frankie; we've lost everything, haven't we?"

"Listen, Gee," I say with a newfound passion, "I will take any reality or any death I can have with you. I will take all the blood on the bed, the lost memories, the pain of a million bullets passing through me - I just need you!"

"Go!" Bob orders Gerard, screaming over the wind, pointing the gun at Gerard but managing to look apologetic as he does so.

He isn't taking this away from me. I refuse to let everything be for nothing. Time will not waste me like I've wasted so many other chances that have come my way.

"NO!" I launch myself at Bob, wrestling for the weapon. We're all gone anyway - he won't have any use for it. "YOU WON'T TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME!"

"HE'S BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOU!" Bob fights me off and pins me to the ground, throwing in a punch to my jaw for good measure.

"YOU'RE A LIAR!" But I'm starting to lose my fury to wild panic. Every piece of Gerard floats around in my mind - his beautiful voice, his drawings on the bedroom wall, his crying when he can't sleep, the way his brows furrow when he concentrates, his lips, the goosebumps on his skin, his moans when I kiss his neck - and I'm terrified that somehow we'll be separated.

This worry forces me to scramble away from Bob and back toward Gerard. Bob starts to come after us with vengeance on his mind, an evil vendetta worse than I can imagine. This is karma, more real than I've ever had it before. It's hysteria.

"Gee!" I hold him, shrieking over the ever-rising wind, and he keeps a grip on me. Nobody knows how much time we have left or what we can do to stop this so I need to say this while I can - I need to beg him with everything I've got. "No matter what he does, you can't leave me, okay? I can't do this without you, Gerard, I need you, I - I'm selfish and a sinner but you're it for me - you're my everything!"

"You said I saved your life," Gerard cries, "I never did that, Frank, we - we kept each other's warm bodies in the ground where we're buried and if we can be six feet under together, I'm sure as hell not giving this up now!" Bob steps closer, slowly, taunting.

"Please don't," I plead like it's his choice, like it isn't literal fate threatening to tear us apart.

"Frank, I'm in too deep to let you go." His thumb glides over my cheek to wipe away a tear and his lips meet mine.

I'm lost in the moment. I taste our tears and wrap my arms securely around his waist. He desperately tangles his fingers in my hair, and feeling his warm touch, I don't notice the blood from my invisible bullet wound seeping through my shirt, or Ray screaming in warning as Bob approaches us with arms outstretched to rip Gerard from my hold.

"STOP IT!" I claw at his biceps, ripping the fabric of his clothes from his skin. I'm a wild animal, a beast with a purpose. But the man is strong, stronger in the knowledge that he's won and everything will be over soon.

"DON'T LET ME GO!" Gerard's last words are hurled at me before Bob forces him into the light.

Suddenly, the world is dark.


	30. I Found Where They Buried Me

_C h a p t e r | T h i r t y_

**Present Day - Frank**

When my parents died, I refused to believe it. I couldn't accept the fact that the two innocent people who brought me up and cared for me my whole life could drop dead in a single moment - it seemed impossibly unfair, the only ones I loved being ripped away so quickly and irreversibly.

I did love them, didn't I? My entire life I've had a very few amount of people to guide me into knowing what love entails; is it self-serving - hoping for the smell of lasagne when you come back from school, trusting your friends not to rat you out when planning to steal cigarettes or shoot up a school? Or maybe it is selfless after all - throwing yourself in front of the barrel of a gun to save your brother's life.

I was starting to learn. I had a ruthless grip on my humanity, shaking the shoulders of my hatred for the world. There was no need for that, no sufficient excuse to smother the ones who spoke out against me with the heavy pillow of death. Now that I know what it's like to die - to be young and trapped forever - I can't believe I thought it was my place to take away other people's lives. Karma for what I did presented itself in the way of a bullet through my torso, a bloody end on a cafeteria floor. Did I get what I deserved?

And now is no different. My Gerard can't be gone, because then I'll truly have nobody.

It's not his fault that any of this happened. I should have left him alone. I should have dropped him off at the side of Route 95, kicked up some dust and drove to Mexico. I never should have interfered in his life, but at least he understands what love is through it all: love is taking a bullet to protect your family. Maybe I should have done that for mine before I lost them. Then we wouldn't be here and I wouldn't have the feeling of having lost everything that ever mattered to me.

He wouldn't leave me.

He said he'd never leave me. He promised he loved me, that we'd be together.

I think of the ring I should have stolen. I thought robbing a jewellery store was too hard and it could wait, that I would make it up to him in due course. We would return to the cornfields every week all the way up to the harvest, watching the world die and grow again, towering above our heads. I should have buried the shotgun in a maze and let the dirt seal its fate.

We were going to spend the rest of our lives together.

As far as I knew, we would be that old couple on the porch. Maybe it would be here in Georgia but undoubtably we would run out of money, and perhaps then we'd try our hand at heading back north. He could have watched over Mikey, called him one more time - maybe eventually he would hear us. I would let Gerard make a million calls - and let them be tracked, let us be taken into custody - if he could have lived.

This can't happen, not now, not like this.

The light is gone, and there's no way to reach the other side. There's no way he's coming back or we'll ever meet again.

I had my chance and it's been prised from me like a newborn from a mother. My hands and arms cradle a blanket of empty air, willing for the one I love to take its place. There is no noise, no contact.

Suddenly I don't give a damn if there's a God up there or not (though from everything that's just happened, it's very possible), because either way, I'm praying.

"Please," I fall to my knees, "please, no. Don't - don't take him from me, please, I'll do anything. I love him." My hands shake in front of me and I wipe them across the dirt, begging to be free of myself and my sins, a second shot, another chance, anything. Then I'm screaming. "Gerard! GERARD! TAKE ME, PLEASE TAKE ME! JUST GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!"

"Frank—" Ray moves cautiously toward me. The faces of my classmates are gone, faded into the shadows, bathing in their satisfaction.

"NO!" I bow down further until my face is pressed against the ground. "No, this can't be happening! He - he can't be gone; I can't live without him!"

"That shouldn't be a problem," Bob sneers from the distance, and I look up to see him leaning against a tombstone with a smirk across his lips.

I did him no wrong, and in return he took my Gerard from me. He sucked every ounce of happiness from my life - from my death. I should've fought harder. I should fight harder now.

Fury consumes me and I launch myself at him. He doesn't fight back, only letting me throw punch after punch at his knocked down body. "THIS WAS YOUR FAULT! I'LL MAKE YOU WISH YOU COULD DIE AGAIN! I'LL TORTURE YOU FOR THIS! THIS IS THE WORST THING YOU COULD EVER DO!"

"Frank, stop! He's already dead, for God's sake, he's suffered enough." Ray pulls me off of the sick scumbag.

It's not enough. No amount of anguish inflicted upon Bob Bryar will ever be enough to make up for what he's done.

"Gee, please come home." I sob as I'm dragged away, not caring that I've never looked so broken or pathetic. Meanwhile, Ray whispers that it's over, to let go, to calm down, to do all sorts of things I'll never be able to do. It makes me want to vomit.

I think of the time I pulled his face from the bathroom sink. He told me what he saw in his subconscious - the tree where Mikey was stuck, the unobtainable branches of another realm he could never climb.

The tree of life.

I turn my head away from Ray's arms to spill the contents of my stomach and collapse beside them. It's only half as disgusting as I feel. I'm shaking violently and whispering, begging, "Come back, come back. Come back."

There has to be some way I can go with him. There must be another option.

"He won't," says Ray, "he can't. I'm sorry, Frank."

Oh God, it hurts. Make it stop!

"Ray," I say desperately, gripping his hands, "I have to go to the other side. I need to be with him, please, you have to understand."

"I do understand, Frank, but I can't help you," Ray replies sympathetically, "as much as I detest Bob, I believe him when he says that damned souls can only cross to the other side with their other half."

And pure souls don't need the baggage.

Numbness settles in my stomach. I ache. He didn't need me. I'm doomed to suffer for all of eternity without the only one I'll ever love, and he'll be at peace. Realisation hits me like a bullet.

I wonder if it hurt him to cross through. Did the light burn out his eyes? What does peace look like anyway? Maybe he's up in the clouds, a fluffy castle of goddamn candy and unicorns. Maybe he's already forgotten about since I was the one who brought darkness into his life, who strangled any future opportunities out of his neck.

"But it's not fair," my lower lip quivers and I suck in a breath, staring into space then squeezing my eyes shut as if I can block out the pain, "I can't spend forever without him, Ray. Oh God, what do I do now? Can I kill myself again?"

If Bob was conscious, I'm sure he'd say something like, 'don't be ridiculous'. But I couldn't care less because I'm willing to try absolutely anything.

I scramble across the cemetery and grab my shotgun from Bob's cold grip, checking to see there's still a single shot left. With shaking hands, I push it inside my mouth until I gag and my finger hovers over the trigger.

It'll be better this way. Whatever happens - I know I'm already dead - maybe I won't have to feel again. Maybe it's a good thing this weapon is still around for this purpose. Cold December air taunts me, tells me I will bring myself warmth by ending it all for good.

"Frank, no!" Ray wrestles with me for the weapon, pulling my fingers from the trigger. "It won't work; you'll just be stuck with half a face forever. No matter what you do to your body, your mind is always going to be present."

I can't do this.

"Please calm down and think about what you're doing." Ray finally rips the gun from my grasp and tosses it away, grabbing my wrists and physically pinning me down so I can't writhe away.

"I can't think," I gasp, "I can't do anything." My breathing picks up and my heart hurts, like there's another bullet lodged inside me. I know that this has all passed now, though, and in reality it's simply my panic that constricts my chest. Ray notices and releases his grip a tad. It doesn't help.

I want to scream in protest but the energy is gradually being sucked from my body to the point where I'm drifting away into unconsciousness.

The small black dots of slipping away make themselves known, and I welcome the deep sleep I know I'll fall into. Perhaps my memory will continue to break away into indistinguishable pieces until I'm nothing but a shell, a calm shredded conch of forgetfulness. That would be as good as heaven.

"Frank, stay with me!" Ray's voice calls from the distance but I'm too far gone to understand.

In my dreams, time isn't real. It could be seconds or weeks that pass but all that matters is that I'm not alone. One day, Ray will become sick of my lifelessness, and leave in a hurry with a jacket tossed over his shoulder, screaming that I'm not with him anymore, slamming the door to never come back. I won't blame him because he's right - I'm not here anymore. I'm trapped within myself, my rotting thoughts, my wishes for it all to go back to how it was.

We're separated and I hardly notice that once again, I'm left alone. This was the way it was always supposed to be.

I feel Gerard's skin under my fingertips, hear his soothing voice pass through. Sometimes it's like he's really here, a ghost lying beside me, his smile anything but fake. I lose my sanity piece by piece every passing moment but these fleeting moments are what keep me somewhat feeling alive.

I sit in the cornfield and dig a hole, scooping out the mud bit by bit. It's only just deep enough to bury my shotgun - it's not yet decent enough to bury myself. I wonder if the dream I had about being trapped underground was a prophecy, and if I should put myself under here forever. Keep digging until I fit. But I would never have the guts to let myself bind with the dust.

We are dust.

We are specks fleeting around an empty desert amongst countless others, cooked in the sun, the lost hope, to be swept away again by the wind that decides our paths. In our more sizeable moments, perhaps we float to an oasis and slowly sink into the water - die in its comfortable coolness.

Gerard was my oasis, and before I fell in love, I was a storm; basking, not baking, in the heat; I was both the wind and all the specks of dust in the desert at once - there's no need for an oasis when you already have everything that could ever quench your thirst.

I let my finger drift over the ground, scrawling a message into the Earth that will surely be blown away by morning. The corn itself keens at the words. There is nothing in this shallow grave I've dug but empty promises.

'Here lies Gerard Way. Lover, brother, seventeen. A sacrifice.'

He's more than I ever was, than I could ever hope to be.

But now I'm nothing; not the dust, the wind, the storm. My oasis was a mirage, but that's okay. Some miracles don't have to last.

It's enough that they were just here.

>

**9 Months Later - Mikey**

"I see your parents are going through a rough divorce," Jamia Nestor notes, tapping her ballpoint pen against a clipboard. She has pages and pages of information - some of it useful, some of it worth nothing. "What brought that on?"

Mikey lies on the sofa opposite her. It's like a movie, the way his head rests on a cushion while he stares thoughtfully at the ceiling, exposing his darkest secrets and opening up to someone who's practically still a stranger. "A lot of things. They were unhappy for years before the shooting, before I started acting up."

"How are you feeling about it?" They're tucked away in a home office - she doesn't do therapy for the school anymore, not after her failed attempt to counsel someone who ended up being centre stage of a mass murder plot. It took her a year to get back on her feet and the first person she invited as a client to talk to her was Mikey Way.

Mikey is about to turn seventeen and his parents have had enough. It's a relief that they're separating after years of neglect - and that's something he still hasn't shared; perhaps not ever will he be ready to talk about his father's temper or the story of Joe the goldfish. Mrs Nestor has vaguely helped him through this conflict, being stuck in the middle of this battle. His mom is staying put in Belleville; his dad is considering moving to New York. So what's a boy like him, stuck in the middle, to do?

"I'm okay, really. I asked my grandmother - Elena - if I could stay with her until I'm eighteen. I promised I'd get a job and help around the house." He smiles a little, thinking of a decent relative he has but hasn't seen in person for many years. It'll be good to catch up and have a change of scenery.

"So you've decided against Chicago," Mrs Nestor muses.

Mikey suppresses a wince. He had thought about it - following Patrick there, making his visions of a famous music band come true. Despite the betrayal, he felt like he had no other options until he considered Elena. That vision feels like a pipe dream now. "I don't ever want to see him again."

"Patrick?"

"Yeah. I... I know things are going well for him and his band. They just got their first album out." God knows who the bassist is. "I'm happy for him, he deserves it." Pete screwed them both over big time but that won't be an issue again - he's still got over fourteen years left of his sentence and by then he'll be in his thirties. Hopefully things will be forgiven and forgot (or just forgot). "I'm leaving soon."

The therapist's eyebrows shoot up. "Good, I'm glad." She didn't expect him to cut ties here so quickly after coming up with a solid plan - Mikey is indecisive and this is a big step for him. "So you feel like you're finished here."

"What's left for me? My mom and..." And nothing. What would be the point in staying? "I've got to get on with my life already." He hopes she won't dare to say that he's 'only a kid' and still has a lot of time to think about it. He's sick of hearing about his age after all he's been through - he grew up the day someone brought a gun to school.

"What about Detective Simmons?" Mrs Nestor asks.

Alicia. Mikey smiles fondly, thinking about the one person he can call his friend to this day. They've kept in touch - she was the one that pushed Mikey to accept Mrs Nestor's therapy sessions - and sometimes Mikey even has a bed on her sofa when things get bad at home. The smell of him will fade from her house soon enough when he leaves. He used to wish she would take guardianship over him but now he knows that would be a step in the wrong direction.

"I'll say my goodbyes," he insists, intending on surprising her at the station one last time before his flight.

"Is there nothing else you need to face?" Mrs Nestor pushes him, hinting at the one thing he's been avoiding for a year and a half.

It wipes the smile off of his face. He really, really doesn't want to. He doesn't feel like he's missing out on anything by not seeing it. "I don't want to face that."

"I think you should, Mikey. You'll kick yourself if you get all the way across the country then lose the opportunity to face your biggest fear."

"I can't look at it." He scrunches up his nose in distaste. Nobody will force him.

"You can; you're strong enough. Think of all you've endured with Pete Wentz, and how you came out as an independent young man with a purpose. This is different, though. You've been living in denial about your brother for a pitifully long time," she says with a glum expression, "it will help you more than you know to begin 'getting on' with your life."

"I'm not in denial," Mikey mutters. He sits up suddenly, feeling vulnerable.

"You've blocked out that day from your mind, I know you have. You shouldn't let the past interfere with your future." That brings him déjà vu, like it's something similar to what Patrick mentioned to him before. Mrs Nestor continues, "Go to your friend and ask to see it. She'll help you."

He doesn't want to ask Alicia about this. Will she agree and think it's in his best interest? Or will she listen to him and send him packing? A simple goodbye would be easier.

"This isn't cool," he complains, wishing she'd drop it. She only drags it out.

"It was never cool," she says with an equal amount of bad attitude, "but you have to face the killing."


	31. Small Miracle

_C h a p t e r | T h i r t y - O n e_

**Present Day - Mikey**

Mikey's miracle is getting out of bed and dragging himself to the police station yet again one morning. His coffee is black and any signs of morning enthusiasm are vacant. He can't remember the last time he smiled.

This is the day he says goodbye to Alicia. This is the day he faces what's been holding him back for a year and a half, much to his dismay. It's been a couple of weeks since he talked to his therapist about it and now the day has come - the farewells and then, a flight that goes far away from here. He can't wait but it's going to be bittersweet.

He takes the bus, eager to get away from his home where cardboard boxes lie collecting dust by the furniture. His dad is moving to New York tomorrow. Mikey is pretty sure there will be no goodbyes exchanged between them.

Alicia sighs when she sees him arrive looking like the walking dead, "God only knows why you keep coming here."

"It's one more time. Sorry if I'm bothering you." He hasn't implemented his plan to tell her that he's leaving yet. This will be completely unexpected and he's anxious to hear her reaction.

"Of course you're not bothering me," she says politely, "what's up?"

Mikey shrugs and sets his coffee down on her desk in the office, shutting the door behind him. "Maybe I wanted to tell you something."

"Lay it on me."

He looks up at her, judging the way she smiles - not sympathetically but invitingly - and the way her eyes tell him that everything will work out.

She's always had that look. Even through the tears and anger and horror, she has kept her promise from day one: that she would help him. This is why he can always trust her, and why he's starting to realise that coming here for the reason he has today is actually a good idea.

"I want to see the tape." He decides.

Alicia's smile falters and she sighs out, "Mikey—"

"Don't. Just—" He resists the urge to slam his hand against the desk. He's in a bad mood and it shouldn't be aggravated. "Damn it, Alicia, I couldn't watch him die. I closed my eyes when it happened, and I've been avoiding every news channel since. I never talk about him as being... being dead. Because that's what he is and I need to believe that. I just need this closure, knowing exactly how it happened, then I swear if I can help it that I'll never set foot in this place again."

She blows out a breath and fiddles with the paperwork on her desk before reluctantly answering the distressed boy in front of her. "You're probably old enough now. Seventeen soon, right?"

He nods curtly. She knows it makes no difference. She asks sternly, "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Mikey scrapes a hand through his recently bleached hair, catching a few loose strands in the process. "Show me."

So she does. It's hidden in her top drawer because nobody has a need for it anymore but she wanted to hold on to it, in case a situation like this ever occurred. She slots it into the VCR, angling the screen so Mikey can see, and presses play.

The camera is positioned in a distant corner of the cafeteria and focuses on a horrifically familiar scene. Students cower under tables and knocked over chairs, a few of them already dead and lying in their own blood, with the exception of the monster who caused all of this, Frank Iero, and a younger Mikey who is pressed against a table, shaking in fear and facing the barrel of a shotgun.

Gerard sprints over, flinging himself in between them and pleading - although the footage is silent - with Frank. Mikey's heart swells at the image of his brother in his sacrifice. The students have scattered now, running for the doors that have been forcibly opened by the police and other forces who move in and aim their weapons.

Frank grabs Gerard in a headlock and shifts backward toward other doors, keeping the shotgun aimed at him. Younger Mikey stays frozen by the table, torn between running for his life and saving his brother.

The guns fire.

Most of them miss their target but within seconds, before Frank or Gerard can escape through the doors, they're hit. Mikey's eyes are shut in the footage as his brother falls to his knees, clutching his torso, and Frank Iero follows suit.

The two of them collapse onto each other, the shotgun slipping from Frank's fingers, a pool of blood surrounding their lifeless bodies. One police officer is frantically waving his hands as an indication to stop, probably yelling at his team to ask them why they took the shot. They could've lived. Gerard Way, Frank Iero, they could've lived. But they didn't.

A cop rushes in to collect Mikey, cradling him to an armoured chest so he won't have to see anything.

So that's it. That's the tape. Was it worth it? Mikey can't decide yet, letting the information sink in - the facts that he already knew but had to live through again to remind himself of what's been happening ever since.

Alicia switches off the tape and tucks it back into her drawer. Her lips purse into a thin line and she refuses to meet his gaze. "I shouldn't have shown you that."

She sees the emotions dancing in his eyes, the conflict within himself. Mrs Nestor told him to do this and he has, so at least he hasn't let her down. And she's an expert in all of this so it must be okay.

"It's fine. I asked for it." Mikey blanches and swallows back his half-digested breakfast, grabbing his coffee and tossing it into the trash can.

"Do you want to go outside?" Alicia offers, noticing how ill he suddenly looks.

"Y-yeah."

They step out to the front doors and lean against the wall, staring off into the open and eerily empty road. Alicia takes out a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Reds, and lights one up.

It's probably rather stupid to ask but he has always been the curious type, and since he's stopped drinking and hanging around the wrong people, he does occasionally crave the odd destructive path. Something to calm his nerves when things get heavy.

"Can I have one?" Mikey asks.

She nearly swallows it in shock horror. "Of course not! You're too young and they're bad for you."

Her reaction is comical. She's usually so straightforward and businesslike that her flustered state amuses him. He didn't realise it was such a big deal for her. Of course, she is in law enforcement and it breaks all kinds of rules. He still has to try.

"Alicia, it's not even eight in the morning and I can already tell this day isn't getting any better."

She sighs irritably and hands him one, lighting it for him in his mouth. He breathes in and reckons he might be the first person to not cough or choke on it during his first try. Almost immediately, his stress levels lower, and he understands how this could become a habit.

They talk all day, about whatever comes to mind. They go for lunch, a small dinner even, then end up back where they started, smoking again.

"I'm leaving tonight," he mumbles.

"Leaving?" She doesn't catch on, taking a long drag through her lips. Her fingers squeeze the cigarette like they're permanently stuck in that position, like all she does is smoke. He smells it on her a lot more these days.

"You know about my dad moving out," he explains and she nods in confirmation, "and I have no interest in going with him nor staying with my mom. So I got in touch with my grandmother."

"To stay with her? I didn't realise you had other relatives." She thought that if he had anyone else in this world, he would have moved on by now. She supposes it's just taken him a long time to get to the point of being able to move on and trying to seek happiness.

"Yeah. It's just her. She's out of state." He kicks a pebble at his feet. "My flight's at ten."

"That's really soon." Alicia checks the time and fawns over it for a moment. "Security can take a long time, you know."

"My stuff's packed and ready to go at my house." Mikey stares at her intently, trying to work out if she's sad. He doesn't want her to be. He doesn't want to be the cause of any misery for the rest of his days. "I don't know when I'll see you again." Or if, ever.

It seems to dawn on her then. She blows out a breath, attempting to release years of stress and tension. She's mostly hopeful. "I'll always be here. You can call, too."

"Thanks," he murmurs. They leave it at that so she can tell he wants to change the subject.

"I suppose I should lock up for the night, but before I do, can I ask you something you might not like?" Alicia asks suddenly, and when he doesn't reply, she takes it as permission. "What do you think would've happened to your brother if they didn't... uh..."

Again, almost funny that she can't get the words out. Like suddenly she doesn't know how to act around the sad little boy who lost his brother and all his friends, who's been through a lot of tough crap recently. She's snapped out of her profession and is trying simply to be a friend again - the same friend that offers him a place to sleep in her living room, always, even if he lives hundreds or thousands of miles away.

"Kill him?" Mikey finishes for her with no hesitation. "I guess that psycho who gunned the school would do it instead."

"You sound so cold when you talk about Frank, but you bullied him, Mikes."

There's that damn name. It's the first time she's brought it up, much to his surprise.

He flinches at the nickname more than her statement. "It's all over now so what does it matter? And please don't call me that." Only his brother does - did - that. "Why did you ask me that anyway?"

"I'm on a new case; a kidnap victim was recently found, but - get this - she fell in love with her kidnapper." Alicia laughs. "It's so difficult to work with her because she won't tell me a thing, because she wants to protect the criminal."

Imagine. How could anyone delude themselves so heavily into thinking a person who ruined their life is worth loving? That would never work out.

"That's messed up."

"Tell me about it. They call it 'Stockholm Syndrome', and she's got it alright - keeps going on about how they're soul mates too." She changes her tone to a little more serious. "Do you think it's real?"

Mikey looks at her incredulously and scoffs. "Soul mates? No, that's bull. That type of love is too good to be real, or to last, at least."

Nobody in the world is paired to be with someone else. It's all nonsense. Mikey's seen enough bad deeds and horrors to know that true love must be impossible to come across - because what the hell was he doing with Pete? Whatever that was, it wasn't right. It wasn't meant to be. He finds it impossible to think there could be much better than that at his young impressionable age.

"Well, it didn't last. The kidnapper's dead." She shrugs. "Which also makes me wonder what happens when we die."

She finishes her cigarette and puts it in the bin. Mikey does the same and decides then and there that he won't be smoking again if he can help it. He doesn't need any more bad influence in his delicate life.

"Are you having an existential crisis?" Mikey jokes and she only laughs and shakes her head. "Well, do you mean, like, heaven and hell?"

Her lips curve into a thoughtful smile.

She's going to miss him.

"Ghosts?" Mikey gazes at the setting sun and smiles at the stars as if they're watching over him. Gerard's face, the mystery call, life; death. Then he says, "wherever we go when we die, we deserve it."


	32. Epilogue: My Sentimental Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: You don’t have to read this epilogue, it’s optional. But if you’re interested in the sequel, this is basically a preview (so it could theoretically be skipped completely).

**5 YEARS LATER.**

"Clear."

A zap through the chest, a shallow gasp, a soul lifted to the surface, and he's opening his eyes. He can't remember ever feeling a kind of pain like this - or, in fact, any kind of pain at all. Before this, nothing. Like a Big Bang bringing everything into existence, all he knows is now, and the now he's a stranger.

"Oxygen mask." One of the paramedics sticks his hand back out of view in search of something.

He pushes himself up too fast, away from the small crowd of people - strangers, all strangers, invading a space he's never called his own - murmuring and sticking their noses around him. What are they doing? What is he doing, lying on the floor in pain - a blocked road with car headlights shining in his direction, his legs flat on the tarmac, an ambulance just metres away?

"I don't want that," he disputes weakly, refusing whatever help and treatment was thrown his way, scrambling to his feet and ignoring the protests of the paramedics.

He hears the incredulous voice of a passer-byer, throwing her arms out, wide-eyed at what must be nothing short of a miracle. In her mind, this man appears completely physically unharmed, which is impossible given the circumstances.

"Mr Joseph?" There's a hand on his shoulder, concerned eyes boring into his. And that hand, he can feel it like he hasn't felt anything for a long time, like it's bled into existence from a void of nothingness. Wherever he was before, it was a very different place. "You sustained some rather serious damage to your cranium. I wouldn't be surprised if you have some confusion and memory loss. Do you know where you are?"

'That's not my name' is his immediate thought, because it's not. He shakes his head absentmindedly, looking around in a daze. But with the casinos and high buildings, all dry lights and chaos - he knows, via some sort of common sense in the back of his head, where they are: the city of Las Vegas.

What he also realises is a single dry reality: that if he lets on he doesn't remember a thing - not a single aspect of even his own identity, which is the utter truth - he'll be forced into the nearest hospital. They'll want to know what happened and what's wrong with him, and he doesn't want to be told any of that. He just wants to go, to run anywhere he can, to discover what, to him, is a new world by his own account.

It scares him, not being able to remember. Surely he should at least recall the first letter of his name or his immediate family or hometown, but no - there's nothing there. It's like a sick experiment; he's totally void. Who is 'Mr Joseph'? He's sure it isn't him. It doesn't strike any chord of resemblance in his head.

"Nevada," he answers eventually, trying to seem like he knows exactly what's going on. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his voice is quiet and unused and the accent is strange. Unfamiliar. The words don't belong in this body.

"Were you under the influence while you were driving today, Mr Joseph?"

It's still not his name. He desperately looks around for any abandoned car on the side of the road, worried he might have hurt someone with a spout of reckless driving. Maybe he's a ruthless drunk on a murderous rampage. There's an old Mercedes surrounded by skid marks of where it's swerved on the tarmac, the door open and its bumper smashed to pieces. Small wisps of smoke, endless flashing lights. Nearby is another wrecked car and a lying body bag outside it, zipped up already to obscure the identity. His reaction is to be sick, but he fights it.

Did he do this? Was he really wasted or on some sort of drug bender when he decided to get in a car and drive carelessly into another vehicle - did he cause the death of another human being? He's a killer - he's a goddamn killer, even if he doesn't remember it.

"No." He turns away, unsure if he's lying, feeling his breath catch in his throat. "This is my fault, isn't it?"

The man in the fluorescent coat asking him questions is stunned, and frowns. "The woman in the other car was intoxicated. From what we can observe, you're the victim here, Mr Joseph."

"Don't call me that," he snaps suddenly and stares at his own hands, and suddenly they look just the slightest bit recognisable - or, at least something does. "I... remember something important."

"What do you remember?"

"Mikey," he chokes out. He makes his way to the side of his ruined car, staring into the black of the window at his own reflection. Dark hair contrasts pale skin, hazel eyes, small lips. He is not Mr Joseph. And his brother is in danger. "I need to find Mikey Way."

>

"So you know I'm a psychic," boasts Brendon, leading his new client to sit down opposite him on the sofa, "it's my job. It doesn't pay much but it's fun."

"So what exactly do you do, communicate with spirits?"

"I've never been able to before. That's more of a Medium's line of work." He shrugs and drops his ridiculous fortune cards face-down, looking up to his guest slyly. He has an idea, hoping to make a little extra money from it. "I can tell people's futures, though. I assume you'd want to know yours?"

They're in Las Vegas, the land of filthy secrets. They let the feelings consume them, the country lead the way into sadistic emotion.

Mikey Way bites his lip thoughtfully before giving in, not really buying such nonsense anyway. "Sure." He honestly has no idea why he's made an appointment with this man but what the hell. He's spent the last miserable years of his life messing around for nothing, he may as well keep doing it. He may as well keep throwing away his money and happiness on hopeful dead-ends.

His future, he thinks, will be bleak in any case. Brendon will tell him it's all fun and games and sunshine and he'll settle down, have a happy family and grow old on a porch. Mikey doesn't see that happening, but it's nice to pretend sometimes.

"It'll be extra, of course. Pick up your cards, just in case. It helps. And give me your hand. I know, it's cliché." Brendon takes Mikey's palm in his own after the boy picks up his cards with his other hand, and he furrows his brows to concentrate. It only works some of the time, telling people's future, but his deposit has been paid, so what does it matter? He never promised he could help this boy know the secrets of the universe.

Thirty seconds later and Brendon's still frowning, closing his eyes and shaking his head. It must be a dead end. "I'm a little out of practice, give me a minute." Three and a half minutes pass before Brendon's eyes snap open and he draws back his own hand, curling into himself, more than horrified. "I— That's never happened before."

"What's wrong?" Despite his disbeliefs, Mikey knows Brendon isn't faking his expression of dismay; his reaction of sheer terror.

"He's angry," Brendon rambles, knowing what he's seen is real, "and he wants... I don't know, revenge? He's coming after you. He's wearing a trench-coat and... he's carrying a shotgun."

Mikey's cards scatter on the ground.


End file.
